Don't Lose Faith
by charlock221
Summary: John sighed. "You were right." "What? Right about what?" Sherlock frowned. The doctor ran a hand through his hair tiredly. "She didn't come." he mumbled. "Who didn't?" Sherlock asked, though he feared he already knew the answer. John's voice cracked when he spoke again. "Mary." Rated T for later chapters
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, please, I'm not going to ask you again."

"I doubt it, seeing as you've said that twice already," came the sharp retort.

John rolled his eyes but did not reply, watching as Sherlock placed a glass slide underneath his microscope and peered into it.

"Will you at least look at me?" he asked mutedly.

Sherlock heaved an over-dramatic sigh before leaning back in his chair and gazing up at the doctor stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. He crossed his arms.

"Well?" he prompted impatiently, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Why won't you come?"

"I've told you; I'm too busy to come."

"But it's my wedding!"

"And?"

John looked about the flat in exasperation before his hazel eyes rested on Sherlock again. "And it would mean a lot if you were there." he answered.

"Why? Why does it matter if I'm going to be there or not? You're not marrying me, it doesn't matter if I don't attend. I would be more concerned about whether Mary was attending, rather than fussing over me."

"Well of course Mary's coming, we're getting married!" John exclaimed, raising his hands in frustration. He took a deep breath before speaking again, his tone more subdued.

"I would like you to be there because you are my best friend, and this day is important to me, and I want my friend to be there when I get married."

"But what would I do there? Sit at a table with people I don't know and be forced to make conversation, either feel obliged to dance with guests or if not linger at the back and watch, and I wouldn't make it home until late, meaning my experiment would be ruined." He gestured to the chemistry set in the middle of the table where a conical flask filled with an alarmingly bright yellow liquid was emitting worrying gases. "I would be bored stiff, and all because you want me to see you place a ring on your wife's finger then dance for the rest of the night."

"I _want_ you to be my best man, Sherlock, but you've already turned that down, so what would you like me to say?"

"You told me Lestrade was your best man." the detective answered.

"Yeah, only because you wouldn't do it in the first place! I'm sure Greg won't mind swapping with you."

"But weddings are so boring! I would much rather be here with these experiments, which, by the way, I cannot leave alone, so your answer's there." he answered defiantly. He looked over to the chemistry set and started slightly at seeing the gases the yellow liquid in the conical flask was producing. That wasn't quite supposed to happen, though it did rather support his point that it couldn't be left alone.

Sherlock glanced back over to John to see the doctor's bowed head, disappointment radiating off of him. The detective sighed again and ran a hand through his hair.

"I just don't see the point." he said in a quieter voice than the one he had been using before.

"I know, Sherlock." John answered, just as quietly. He raised his head, avoiding eye contact. He glanced at his watch. "I have to get going; I'm supposed be getting ready about now. And... if you really don't want to come, then it's okay." Going by John's tone, though, it didn't sound okay.

"The experiments." Sherlock repeated as a last effort to get his point across.

"...Have to be monitored, yeah, I get it." John said. He offered Sherlock a slight smile before turning to the living room. "I guess I'll see you... well, I'm not sure how long it'll be, we're flying out tomorrow morning... I'll – er – try and drop by after the wedding, if not–"

"John." Sherlock called. He heard his friend stop on the way to the door.

Another sigh escaped him. "I should probably be finished with this by late afternoon. I might be able to make it to the reception, if that would be suitable."

"Would you?" John rounded the corner back into the kitchen, his voice filled with hope. Sherlock smirked slightly.

"Yes."

"Thank you, Sherlock, really." John gushed. "You know where it is, don't you? Yes, right. Um – OK, you don't have to dress up or anything, you can come in one of your suits, I really don't mind. And, er I'll have to get some to add an extra chair to one of the tables, unless you want to sit at the head table with us? That would probably be better, actually, because then–"

"John, you're babbling." Sherlock interrupted, smiling.

"Right. Sorry. See you later?"

"Yes, you will."

John flashed a grin at him before hurrying out the flat and down the steps, the front door opening and closing moments later. Sherlock let out a slight chuckle at John's enthusiasm before returning to his microscope.

Hopefully it wouldn't be as dull as he imagined, though he doubted he'd be able to have a proper conversation with John what with the army doctor's new wife that he would be clinging to. Ugh.

It wasn't that he had a problem with Mary. Really, she was a nice enough woman; she didn't seem as horrified as any of the other girlfriends John had had when he was first introduced to her and he had casually mentioned the cat's liver in the fridge later on in the evening. She even grinned when John shot him a glare. And he could remember one time when everyone in the world was annoying him to the extent that he refused to remove himself from the couch for a weekend. What had brought him out of his depression was the smell of smoke, and when he turned his head towards the living room to find the source, Mary was stood in front of him offering a lit cigarette. She had made him promise not to tell John, which he had agreed to immediately. She had continued to supply him cigarettes whenever he was in need of one for the rest of the time he knew her.

So yes, Mary was fine. John was obviously infatuated her, and it was clear she reciprocated those feelings. The only thing Sherlock disliked about their relationship was the face that John had moved out of 221B.

True, the doctor tried to visit him every other day, so it wasn't like Sherlock never saw him, but it didn't feel the same.

He couldn't simply stride into John's workplace and whisk him off on a case like he used to be able to do before, because John would say that he was going out with Mary that night. John did still accompany him on a case here and there, and the doctor was more than willing to patch him up were he to have been hurt, and Sherlock knew that if he was injured to the extent that he was in dire trouble, John would drop everything and find him with one phone call. But it just wasn't the same as before, and that was what got to Sherlock.

And now John was getting married, and Sherlock knew there would be no chance of it ever being the same as before.

* * *

8 o'clock in the evening rolled around and Sherlock had finally managed to work out why the yellow liquid in the conical flask had been emitting fumes. It was because when John had visited earlier, Sherlock had been smoking. Upon hearing John's recognisable footsteps, he panicked and proceeded to flick the cigarette into the relatively harmless yellow liquid in the conical flask. The acerbic acid in the cigarette had reacted with something in the yellow liquid, and thus fumes had been given off.

Having solved this little case, Sherlock rose from the table and made his way into the living to slide on his coat and scarf. Glancing at his watch, he mused that the reception would be in full swing by now. He'd probably only missed about an hour.

Hailing a cab was easy enough, and he spent the time musing over whether he should have brought John and Mary a wedding present. Rummaging in his pockets, he pulled out his half-empty cigarette carton and briefly considered giving this to Mary. After all, she was a smoker and he was sure she'd get the joke. And John wouldn't be expecting a present, really just going to the reception would probably be enough of a gift for John. He knew that was a bit shallow, but he also knew that would be what John would say to him if he did appear with a gift. So. Sorted that out.

The reception was to be held at Pembroke Lodge, in Surrey – Mary's choice. Sherlock knew John would never have gone for something extravagant had he been given the choice. Still, John had told Sherlock that the place was relatively cheap and the grounds were spectacular, so he was happy with the suggestion.

Fifteen minutes later the taxi pulled up outside Pembroke Lodge; it was a large, white manor with a long driveway leading up to it. Surrounding the building were various plants and tall trees, and just behind the Lodge was a large expansion of field, presumably for guests to stand at the edge of should they need some air.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and gently pushed open the double doors, walking down numerous corridors and listening out for music or the chatter of guests, but he could hear nothing. Frowning, the detective circuited the building twice, but no sound was heard from any of the rooms.

On his third circuit of the place, Sherlock made sure to check in every room, opening doors and sticking his head in, even if other events were taking place. Those people gave him funny looks but he paid them no heed, increasing his speed now as he looked in every room.

He was marching down one of the last few corridors when he happened to glance into one of the rooms, the door already open. He had passed this room twice already, but because no sounds had come from it, he hadn't paid it any attention. Now though, he walked forwards slowly until he was stood in the doorway of a very large room.

Decorations covered every aspect of it, and circular tables covered in white cloth had been placed along the lengths of the two opposite walls. At the back of the room was one long rectangular table, again it was covered in a white tablecloth and Sherlock could see plates and cutlery set out at the places, but no one was sat there to enjoy the food.

But what really made Sherlock pause in the doorway in shock, was John.

John was sat on his own at one of the circular tables to the right of the room, dressed in his tuxedo and downing a flute of champagne. He looked back down at the empty glass sadly, before reaching forwards for the champagne bottle in the centre of the table. His whole demeanour was defeated – his shoulders slumped, his head bowed – and he didn't even notice Sherlock watching him. Going by the state of the room, which basically looked untouched, John had been the only one to set foot in it.

"John." Sherlock murmured, walking forward towards his friend. The doctor jumped slightly and glanced up, his face expressionless as Sherlock came closer and sat in the chair to his left.

"What happened?" he asked. John didn't reply immediately; instead, he swallowed the refilled glass of champagne before setting the drained glass down on the table slowly, his fingers circling the rim of it.

"Go home, Sherlock." he said eventually, his voice quiet. "Everyone else has."

"What happened?" he repeated.

John's eyes travelled over to Sherlock, looking him up and down and then returning to the empty glass. He grabbed the champagne bottle and was about to pour himself another drink when Sherlock snatched the bottle from him and out of reach. He looked at John with his eyebrows raised.

John sighed. "You were right."

"What? Right about what?" Sherlock frowned.

The doctor ran a hand through his hair tiredly. "She didn't come." he mumbled.

"Who didn't?" Sherlock asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.

John's voice cracked when he spoke again. "Mary."

* * *

**A/N: "Hello, hello, is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's - well, technically it _is _a plane..."**

**Sorry, I always start quoting that whenever I say hello. Either that or I start singing the Book of Mormon.**

**_Anyway_, thank you very much for taking the time to read this. I've gotten most of the story planned out and written so updates should be pretty regular, and I only hope you'll enjoy what's to come x**


	2. Chapter 2

John stretched across Sherlock and managed to retrieve the champagne bottle, then he poured the liquid into his own glass and another one. He passed the second glass to the detective.

"Drink up." he said, somewhat bitterly. "I'm paying for all this, so we might as well enjoy it." He downed the drink in one.

"John, how many have you had?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John swallowed and frowned slightly. "Two or three."

"_John_."

"... Seven or eight." he answered reluctantly. "Though I'm still not as drunk as I'd like to be."

There was a long silence as John contemplated having another drink and Sherlock studied his friend intently.

"I'm sorry." he said eventually.

John huffed a humourless laugh. "What for? It's not your fault."

Sherlock shrugged. "Isn't that what people say when offering their sympathies?"

"I don't want your sympathy, Sherlock." the doctor said tiredly, placing his head in his hands.

"Then what do you want?"

"I want Mary!" John exclaimed, slamming his hands on the table. Sherlock didn't react, simply watched him.

"I want to marry her, I want to have kids with her, I want to grow old with her, and I want to know why she left, I want to know what I did wrong, I want to find her and make it up to her! I just want... her." he finished in a quiet voice, placing his head back in his hands.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you." he muttered.

"Do you know where she is?" Sherlock asked after a few moments.

John shook his head. "No one can find her. Greg told me he's taken a few men from the Yard to look for her, but nothing's turned up. Even Mycroft can't locate her."

"Why did you even invite him?" Sherlock muttered absent-mindedly.

John smirked slightly. "Because he was good to me during the years you were gone, even though he was in on it."

"John..." Sherlock began.

"No, I wasn't having a dig at you about that," John interrupted. "I was just saying."

"Have you seen her at all today?" the detective asked, deciding for a change of topic.

"No, the last time I saw her was yesterday. She seemed fine, excited even. I've tried calling her, but there's no answer."

"Perhaps she just got... what's the expression? Cold fingers?"

"Cold feet."

"Right, maybe she got those."

John sighed, lifting his head up. "I don't know, maybe. It's just... wouldn't she have called me? To say so?"

Yes, she would have. Sherlock knew that Mary would have called John immediately if she'd panicked, so that John wouldn't worry. But she hadn't called, so where was she?

"It's likely she's with a friend or relative. Were all her family here?"

"I think so, I'm not sure how many friends came though."

Sherlock nodded, then frowned. "You said you were paying for all this? I thought it was traditional for the bride's family to pay for the ceremony?"

John hesitated. "I – yes, but both our parents are dead, so she has been entrusted into the care of her uncle, and he is under the impression that the reason Mary hasn't shown up is because of me, so he's refusing to pay, and he won't allow anyone in his family to pay either. I tried to convince him otherwise but he wouldn't listen. I think he thinks I'm trying to con money out of Mary." he said dejectedly.

"Idiots." Sherlock muttered. John smiled in agreement, taking a sip of his champagne.

"Mycroft and I will pay for it if you want." Sherlock offered, knowing that Mycroft wouldn't mind. Hopefully.

John shook his head. "I couldn't ask that of you. I'll take care of it, don't worry."

"John–"

"Sherlock, please, I really don't want to think about it all right now." he sighed.

The detective remained silent, then he suddenly grasped his drink and downed it in one. John watched him with raised eyebrows as Sherlock pulled a face.

"I was never one for alcohol." he murmured.

"Me neither." John chuckled bitterly. "And yet..." He finished his ninth glass.

Sherlock smirked in return. "How long have you been here?" he asked gently.

"Since about two o'clock." he answered.

"Six hours on your own?" Sherlock asked, silently chiding himself for taking so long with his experiment that morning.

"No, Harry dropped by, but I told her to go away when I saw she was drunk. Oh, and Mycroft was here briefly as well, though only to tell me that no one could find Mary. I told him to go away too."

Internally, Sherlock was smiling victoriously, but the feeling was soon quashed as he watched John breathe another sigh, his face looking exhausted and haggard. The doctor was leaning his head on one of his hands, whilst his other hand played with his empty glass.

"Why would she do this Sherlock?" he asked miserably. "I thought she was the one. Why would she leave?"

"I don't know, John." Sherlock answered softly. An affair was the most likely explanation, but Sherlock thought Mary was a lot more faithful than that. His mind was also considering the idea that Mary had somehow scammed John, but every time he'd seen her he hadn't noticed anything odd.

Either she was a very good actor or he was losing his touch. He decided then and there that he would hunt down this seemingly good-natured woman and make sure she knew how much pain she had caused John.

The doctor's shaky exhale caused Sherlock to withdraw from his mind, and he looked across at his friend to see him with his eyes closed and breathing slowly.

"I want to go home." he murmured, barely audible.

Sherlock nodded. "Alright." he answered, getting to his feet. "Come on, I'll drive you. You'll have to remind me of the address again–"

"Not my house." John interrupted. "To... Baker Street. If that's OK." He opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock, his eyes gleaming.

"Of course." Sherlock replied instantly.

"Thank you." John whispered. He got unsteadily to his feet and wavered a bit on the spot. Sherlock moved closer and grasped his elbow, waiting until he'd regained his balance.

"Too many drinks." John muttered, smiling grimly.

"Come on." Sherlock tugged lightly, and they made their way across the room and out the door, and then down a few corridors until they were outside. John stumbled every now and then but Sherlock kept an iron grip on his arm, and soon they were steadily making their way along the long driveway, the fresh air seemingly giving John some of his balance back.

"Did you bring a car?" John asked.

"No, but this one will do." Sherlock gestured to a white Jaguar parked on the grass at the side of the driveway.

"Sherlock, we can't just hijack a car." John said quietly. "And anyway, that's Mary's uncle's."

"I know." the detective answered, striding towards the car.

"Sherlock, no." John said, grabbing his arm. His face looked anything but amused, which was what Sherlock had been aiming for. Instead, he was watching the detective with a pleading look. "Look, it's a ten minute walk up the drive and then we're at the main road. We can take a cab."

"Alright." Sherlock replied. The duo carried on walking at a leisurely pace, each caught up in their thoughts. The walk was conducted in silence, and when they at last made it to the main road, Sherlock held out his hand and a taxi seemingly appeared out of nowhere. The brunette held the door open for John as he got in, before climbing in himself.

Like the walk, nobody spoke during the cab ride. John had his head leant against the window, watching the scenery fly past as darkness began to settle in the city. Sherlock was focused on his phone, having sent the same text to both Lestrade and Mycroft, and both men had replied saying there was no sign of Miss Morstan. He huffed in frustration and slid his hand into his pocket, where his fingers brushed the half-empty cigarette carton. He looked across at John.

"Do you smoke?"

John glanced across at him, frowning. "What?" he asked tiredly.

"Do you smoke?"

"No, I don't. You know I don't." John replied. "Why are you asking?"

"I was going to offer you a cigarette." Sherlock admitted, pulling out the carton and showing the doctor.

John opened his mouth to say something, but instead he closed it and shook his head slightly, smiling to himself as he looked back out the window. Sherlock frowned down at the cigarettes before stuffing them back in his pocket.

Soon enough the cab pulled up outside 221B, and the pair climbed out, Sherlock paying for the fare. John was waiting for him on the pavement, and Sherlock could tell the doctor now thought it wasn't his place to simply walk into the apartment, so he was waiting for Sherlock to show him in instead. He'd been doing that ever since he moved out; knocking and waiting for either Sherlock or Mrs Hudson to answer, and it frustrated Sherlock to no end because he wanted John to still think of 221B as home, so much so that he'd let himself in without knocking. Although, his brain supplied, John _had_ called 221B his home when they were at Pembroke Lodge. That had to count for something.

"Next time just come straight in." he said to John, who smiled briefly in response.

Sherlock opened the door and just as they were about to mount the stairs, the door to Mrs Hudson's flat opened and the small woman poked her head out upon hearing them entering. When she saw John, she emerged from the doorway and bustled over, silently pulling the doctor into a strong embrace. John wrapped his arms around her waist and held her just as tight, burying his head in her neck.

Sherlock surmised that this was probably the only physical contact John had received all day, besides perhaps a hand on the shoulder from Greg and possibly Mycroft. He knew John's parents were dead and Harriet was that big on hugging, so he'd received no comforting embraces. Going by the way Mrs Hudson was rubbing her hand up and down John's back, she had known this too, and Sherlock wondered who had told his landlady what had happened, knowing that she had been unable to attend due to her sister being ill. She had apologised profusely, but John had waved it away good-naturedly.

The two broke apart and Mrs Hudson placed her hands either side of John's face, her thumb brushing away a stray tear. She rose on her toes to press a light kiss to his cheek.

"If you need anything dear, anything at all, you come and see me right away, understand?" she said stern tone. John choked a laugh and squeezed one of her hands still resting on his face in return.

With a last comforting squeeze to his shoulder, Mrs Hudson disappeared back into her flat, and Sherlock and John were left to climb the stairs. Upon entering the flat, Sherlock headed straight for the kitchen, whilst John stood in the middle of the living room, looking around.

"Do you want some tea?" Sherlock asked, flicking on the kettle.

"No thanks." John answered distractedly as he picked a newspaper up off the floor and onto the table.

Sherlock peered into the living room. "Sit down John, before you fall down. You look exhausted."

John sank onto the sofa. "I feel it." he muttered.

"The bedroom upstairs is still free if you want it." he called, returning to making himself a cuppa.

"Thanks." John said, resting his head against the back of the couch and closing his eyes for a few moments.

Sherlock soon finished preparing his tea, and made a beeline for his armchair. He settled down with a contented sigh, and when he looked across at John, he wasn't at all surprised to see the army doctor sleeping, his head lolling to the side.

Sherlock rose from his armchair, placing his tea on the table, and fetched the afghan blanket folded over John's old chair. He set it aside and gently tugged John out of his jacket so he wasn't restricted. He also unbuttoned his waistcoat, then softly laid him along the sofa, his head resting on a cushion. Sherlock toed off his dress shoes and lifted his legs up. The blanket was soon draped over him, and the detective walked over to the other side of the room, scooping up his violin and playing a gentle tune to ensure his blogger slept peacefully.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was lounging in his chair with a cigarette perched in his mouth the next morning when he'd noticed John stirring. The doctor rolled onto his back and stretched his arms above his head, his eyes blinking wearily as he adjusted to the sunlight pouring into the room.

"Wassa time?" he murmured. Sherlock checked his watched.

"8 o'clock." he answered around the cigarette. John nodded and rubbed his eyes, then sat up slowly and stiffly. His gaze travelled over to Sherlock, who was texting quickly on his phone with one hand, whilst the other held the cigarette.

"You've started smoking again?" John asked. The detective nodded, his eyes never leaving his phone.

"Why? You were doing well before."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Sherlock."

Nothing.

John sighed, rising to his feet. "Well, I haven't missed this." he muttered as he moved over to the kitchen.

The detective glanced up. "Missed what?"

"Your decision to ignore me whenever I try to... pry." John smiled slightly as he flicked the kettle on. "Do you want tea?"

"Yes, thank you." Sherlock said distractedly, "How are you feeling?" he asked after a moment's silence.

"Hung-over." John answered as he dry-swallowed two painkillers. "I'm not as tolerant as I thought."

Sherlock inclined his head. "I think nine drinks would be a bit of a stretch for anyone." he said.

The doctor was about to answer when his mobile phone suddenly vibrated from the sofa. He dropped his tea and leapt over to the couch, grabbing his phone. The cup smashed upon impact with the floor and Sherlock jumped, having not heard John's phone. He looked up towards the kitchen, then across to John when he heard the doctor curse.

"It's just Harry." John muttered, refusing the call and throwing his phone back onto the sofa. "Sorry, I've just broken one of your cups." He walked back over to the kitchen and began to clean up the porcelain shards. "I'll replace it, don't worry."

"It's alright." Sherlock said. John ignored him and threw the shards into the bin. He hovered by the bin for a few moments.

"John?" Sherlock asked, frowning at the doctor's sudden stillness. John turned slowly and moved towards the doorway between the kitchen and the doorway. The army doctor refused to make eye contact with Sherlock.

"Can I ask you a really big favour?" John asked quietly.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock put aside his phone and gave him his full attention.

"Would you... let me stay here for a few days?" John glanced up cautiously. "Just until I sort everything out?"

"John, you don't have to ask." he sighed. "It's fine. Actually, I had one of Mycroft's men bring over some clothes for you last night." He gestured to the door, where a duffel bag lay.

"Oh." the doctor replied. "Um... thanks. I won't be here long, I hope, it's just–"

"It's fine." Sherlock interrupted. "Stay as long as you want."

"Thanks." John breathed, obviously relieved.

There was a sudden knock at the door, and the doctor jumped. He spun quickly and marched to the door, wrenching it open quickly to reveal DI Lestrade, still with his hand raised to knock again.

"Greg." John sighed.

"John." The DI answered with a frown. "Can I come in?"

"Yes, of course." John stepped aside, wiping his hands over his face as Greg moved forward.

"How are you?" Greg asked the doctor.

"Fine. Fine. I'm fine." John smiled, though it was clearly forced.

"OK..."

"Um... I'm just going to get changed if that's alright? Sherlock, can I–?"

"Yes." the detective interrupted. John nodded and picked up the duffel bag before hurrying upstairs.

Greg turned to Sherlock. "How is he really?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock sighed. "Tired, worried, desperate, upset." he answered.

"God," the DI murmured. "Poor bloke. You should have seen his face at the church, when it dawned upon him that Mary wasn't coming. God, I've never wanted to hurt a woman, but if I saw Mary now, I don't want to think about what I'd do."

"That makes two of us." Sherlock muttered.

"Why would she do this?" Greg asked, more to himself. "Do you think she was having an affair, or something?"

"Seems the most likely."

"But not telling John? Deciding not to leave him until their wedding day? That's cruel, Sherlock. It's almost as if she has a vendetta against him."

The detective didn't answer.

"And where were you? You're his best mate, for crying out loud." Greg didn't raise his voice, but Sherlock could detect the traces of anger there.

"I was... busy at the time." he answered quietly. Greg shook his head and dropped into John's armchair.

"It's not as if I don't regret it now, though." Sherlock answered sternly, having seen the traces of disbelief of the DI's face.

"Alright, fine." Greg said softly. "It wasn't your fault, anyway. Did he come here then, last night?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I'd told him I would attend the reception, but when I got there it was just him, trying to finish a bottle of champagne."

"Shit." Greg whispered. "I should've known he'd go there. He told me he was going straight to yours."

"Did he?" Sherlock asked, surprised. John's behaviour since yesterday had led to Sherlock surmising that John felt he wasn't welcome at Baker Street. This was something then, at least.

Just then, there were footsteps on the stairs and John re-entered, dressed in clean clothes. He looked at Greg hopefully.

"Have you found her?"

"No, sorry mate. She's vanished." Greg answered solemnly, looking up at John.

John's shoulders sagged, and he all but dragged himself over to the sofa as Greg continued speaking.

"None of her family or friends have seen her, and they didn't look like they were lying because they all seemed pretty worried. The last person to see her was Mary's maid of honour, who said Mary was going to the bathroom but never came back... Have you tried calling her?"

John raised his head and gave the DI a look, before reaching across the sofa and grabbing his phone.

"I've called her... twenty-three times since yesterday." he said, throwing his phone back to the other side of the sofa.

"Right, sorry."

The next few minutes were conducted in an uncomfortable silence, and Sherlock spent the time studying his ex-flatmate. The man looked visibly drained, and there were dark circles under his eyes, clearly from a restless night, which Sherlock had sat through and tried to ignore.

"John," Greg began tenderly, bringing Sherlock out of his thoughts. "Would you be willing to go back to your house? Just to see if she's left a note, or if there's anything that can tell us where she's gone?"

John sighed. "Greg, I don't think she wants to be found."

"We don't know that yet, and we won't know unless we look."

John considered for a few moments, before nodding slightly. "Alright, fine. I could grab some things as well." He got up and grabbed his jacket, waiting for Greg by the door.

"Sherlock?" he asked. "Will you come too?"

The detective glanced up. "If you want me to, John."

John nodded. "Please. You might... You might notice something that we don't."

Sherlock frowned. "I've never been in your home before, so I won't know immediately if anything's moved."

The doctor smiled slightly. "Yes, but whose fault is that?"

Sherlock smirked and stood up, also grabbing his coat and scarf and sliding them on, following Greg and John out of 221B and into the DI's car.

* * *

John and Mary's house was situated in the rural part of Kensington. Mary worked there as a primary school teacher, so John had had to be transferred to the local doctor's clinic. The house itself was not overly large. It was situated along a street of similar looking houses; a white exterior with a few steps leading up to it.

John unlocked the front door and made his way inside, Greg and Sherlock not far behind. A narrow corridor led them to a staircase which they all climbed. Upstairs was one large room, and at the back was the kitchen and the rest of the space was occupied by the living room. The place was very tidy – a lot tidier than 221B – and Sherlock could tell that Mary had mild OCD, having noticed the two small sofas that were at an exact right angle to each other, and everything on the coffee table and dining table was straightened.

John cleared his throat. "Um, upstairs are two bedrooms and a bathroom, which I'll look through if you two wanted to start here?" Greg and Sherlock nodded. "OK, er, feel free to make yourselves a drink or something." Rubbing his hands together nervously, John made his way upstairs, leaving Greg and Sherlock in an awkward silence.

Greg perched himself on the edge of a sofa and began to sift through the correspondence on the coffee table whilst Sherlock set about examining the bookshelves. There were a number of photographs, mainly of John and Mary, but one caught his eye, and he picked it up to examine it closer.

It was a photograph of two children, a girl and a boy. The girl looked to be about seven whilst the boy could have only been around four, and the two of them were on a beach, being chased by a man, who must have been Mary's father. Sherlock turned the photo frame around and unclasped the back, and with a triumphant smile he read the writing on the back of the photo.

_Mary and Jonathan with Arthur at Leigh-on-Sea-Beach, 1984_

"Jonathan." Sherlock muttered to himself. "Lestrade, has John ever mentioned someone called Jonathan?" he asked, turning to the DI, who was now sat at the kitchen table.

"Jonathan? Uh... actually, I think John once said Mary had a step-brother called Jonathan, from her father's second marriage."

"Mary's mother was – Arthur's? – yes, Arthur's first wife?" Sherlock came over and sat at the table too.

"Yeah, I think so, you'll have to clarify with John though."

"Did he marry anyone after Jonathan's mother?"

"Yes... Yes he did. But I wouldn't know her name."

"Any children?"

Greg rubbed at his forehead, clearly trying to remember if John had told him. "Two boys, I think. I'm not sure, ask John. Why do you want to know?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Just wondering. It could be possible that she went to one of these three boys. Jonathan or the other two."

"Maybe, yeah. I'll try and get hold of them in a bit. Have you found anything else?"

"Nothing."

John came back down a few minutes later, looking dejected as he walked across the room to sit next to Sherlock at the circular table. "There's nothing upstairs." he said. Anything here?"

Greg stood up. "I don't think so, mate. Sorry, this was a bad idea."

John waved the comment aside. "No, it's fine. At least we know now."

The DI shook his head. "No, this doesn't really tell us anything. Actually, it encourages the idea that she got cold feet and just panicked."

"Then why hasn't she tried to get in contact since?" John asked quietly. Greg's face fell.

Sherlock shrugged. "If anything, having found no note makes it all the more likely that Mary had been planning to leave John for a while."

The kick under the table that Greg aimed at Sherlock wasn't enough to shut him up.

* * *

**A/N: So my mum spilt tea on my laptop, and at the moment it's throwing a big hissy fit and not working properly. I barely managed to upload this chapter. It's been sent away for repairs, and I probably won't get it back until Thursday or Friday, so there might not be any updates for a few days, sorry.**

**Anywho, hope you've enjoyed this chapter, and thank you so much to those who have favourited/followed/reviewed. You're all stars x**


	4. Chapter 4

A week passed and there was still no sign of Mary. John remained at 221B, sleeping in his old room, though Sherlock could tell the doctor never got any decent sleep during the night. Clients had come to Baker Street asking for Sherlock's help, and initially the younger man had declined them for John's sake, but John had managed to persuade him to take the cases, seeing as the detective was obviously itching to get out the flat. John didn't come with him on the cases, and Sherlock made sure to only accept easy ones so that the maximum amount of time he spent out of the flat was a day.

John was also becoming more distant. Sherlock had noticed this when the doctor spent lots of time in his room, and whenever he did come down, it was usually for a cup of tea or some food. It wasn't as if John was outright ignoring Sherlock – he would ask him about the cases he'd been on and make sure the younger man was eating and sleeping – but usually whenever Sherlock questioned him on something, he'd reply in monosyllables. Sherlock knew John constantly kept his phone on hand, on the off chance that Mary would call, and the detective noticed numerous times John trying to ring his fiancée – probably at least ten times a day – but there was always no answer, which always served to dampen John's mood.

The pair spent the evenings in the living room, and they would chat about Sherlock's cases or John's new job.

"Why Kensington?" Sherlock asked one night, about a week after John first arrived back in 221B.

"Hmm?"

Why did you and Mary move to Kensington? I thought she lived in Chelsea."

John shifted, but nodded. "She did, but she grew up in Kensington and always wanted to go back there."

"How did you afford it?" the detective asked bluntly.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "How did you afford the apartment? You're still tight on money, so did she pay for it all?"

"What? No. I wouldn't have let her pay for all of it. No, I paid for some of it whilst she paid for... the majority." John squirmed uncomfortably.

"How did she pay for it?"

"Money."

"_John_."

"Why do you want to know all of a sudden?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why not?"

John rolled his eyes. "She inherited a lot from her father when he died."

"Arthur."

"Ar – yes, how did you know?"

"I found a photograph when we went to your apartment. The description said it was Mary and Jonathan with Arthur. Jonathan is her step-brother?"

"Yeah, he is. He and Mary split the inheritance."

"What about her other step-brothers?"

"Other step-brothers? She doesn't have any other step-brothers."

"Lestrade said that Mr. Morstan had two more boys in his third marriage."

"Oh," John nodded, "Yeah, Arthur did have two more boys, but he and their mother never got married, so the brothers couldn't claim anything. There was a big legal debate about it actually." John muttered, eyes drifting off.

"What were the brothers' names?"

"God, I can't remember; I've never met them. They've got funny names. Not as funny as yours, mind you."

Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms and John chuckled.

"I'm joking." he assured.

"'Mycroft' is weirder." Sherlock argued petulantly, drawing a grin from John.

That was generally how the evenings went. Either Sherlock would ask questions about John and Mary, or John would ask questions about cases he hadn't been on. It would finish with John making a joke and then Sherlock insulting Mycroft.

One day though, about ten days after the wedding-that-wasn't, Harry Watson showed up.

At three-thirty in the morning.

Drunk.

John and Sherlock were camped out on the couch, both watching a movie despite the late hour. John had come downstairs after being unable to sleep, and Sherlock had already noticed the dark shadows under his eyes in the mornings. Sherlock was up anyhow, visiting his Mind Palace when John shoved his legs off the couch and sat down, effectively pulling Sherlock back to reality.

The detective begrudgingly moved over and then, having noticed John's tense posture, suggested they stick a film on. John nodded absent-mindedly and, realising the doctor wasn't going to move, Sherlock got up and grabbed the first DVD he found, putting it into the DVD player then returning to the sofa.

About an hour into the movie, neither of them was paying attention to it anymore; John because he was moments away from falling asleep, and Sherlock because he had lost interest and retreated to his Mind Palace (it was some old spy film – James someone – and he had correctly deduced the plot line within the first ten minutes).

John eventually dropped off, his head lolling onto Sherlock's shoulder, and the detective fished for the remote that was squashed between the cushions. He turned the television off now that no one was watching and he could think in silence. The case he was currently working on wasn't particularly difficult, but it required some thought to work out the burglar's next move. He knew it wouldn't be long until he came up with the solution, so he put all his energy into thinking, glad to be able to finally concentrate.

He got about ten minutes of peace when someone knocked on the front door. Loudly.

John jumped next to him and straightened up, blearily rubbing his eyes.

"What was that?" he murmured, looking around but Sherlock was up already and heading for the stairs.

"Door. It's alright, I've got it." he answered, hurrying to the door before the pounding woke Mrs. Hudson up.

"Yes?" he demanded of the woman stood in front of him. She had blonde hair that reached her shoulders and Sherlock immediately smelled alcohol on her. The resemblance between her and John was uncanny, and Sherlock knew instantly that he was looking at Harriet Watson.

When he'd swung the door open, Harry had frozen, almost as if she wasn't expecting anyone to answer. It took her a few moments to form a coherent sentence.

"You – you're not John." she frowned, swaying slightly.

"Astute observation. Is there anything else you want to clarify or will you be leaving now?" He made to close the door, but Harry beat him to it, moving her foot in the way.

"Where's Johnny?" she asked defiantly, attempting to get past, but Sherlock gripped her arms tightly.

"Miss Watson, your brother is asleep." he lied, for he could hear John moving about upstairs. "Which is perfectly reasonable at three-thirty at night. What do you want?"

"JOHNNY!" she hollered, struggling against the detective. "GET THIS PERSON OFF OF ME!"

Sherlock all but growled as he shoved her outside, the blonde stumbling down the few steps. He followed her out, shutting the door behind him.

"For God's sakes, shut up! You are clearly intoxicated and do you honestly think John wants to see you like this? He is under the impression you're sober, after all."

Sherlock could see Harry's temper flare up, and she was about to respond when the front door opened and John marched out, fully dressed. Harry's eyes lit up, and a wide grin stretched across her face.

"Johnny!" she exclaimed, raising her arms. John ignored her exclamation and instead gripped her wrist, leading her to the edge of the pavement. The doctor turned back to Sherlock.

"I'm going to take her to a hotel for the night." he said stiffly. "Not sure when I'll be back. Sorry you had to talk to her like this."

Sherlock didn't have time to reassure him for the doctor had opened the door to a cab that had just rolled up and waited for his sister to get in, before sliding in after her. Sherlock heard Harriet say, "So what have you really done to scare my sister-in-law away?" just as John slammed the door closed and the taxi drove off.

With a sigh, Sherlock turned and headed back inside, only to find Mrs. Hudson peeking out from her doorway, her dressing gown wrapped tight around her.

"Sherlock?" she whispered. "Who was shouting? Is everything OK?"

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Hudson. Go back to sleep. Sorry to have woken you."

"Oh no, it's alright." she murmured, moving back inside her flat. Sherlock made his way upstairs and walked back to the sofa, lying down on it and closing his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. He could only imagine how tired John was, and it wasn't long before he dropped off, completely oblivious to the world.

* * *

When Sherlock woke up it was gone midday. He opened his eyes hazily, blinking down at the blanket draped across him. He looked across the living room to see John stood in the kitchen making tea, his back to him. The doctor turned around and paused for a moment when he saw Sherlock watching him silently, but then he continued forward, placing one of the two cups of tea on the coffee table and retreating perch on the edge of his armchair.

"When was the last time you slept?" John asked quietly, sipping at the tea.

Sherlock stretched languidly. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday. The 9th."

"Er..."

John rolled his eyes. "That's enough of an answer, don't worry." he said.

The detective studied him from across the room. "What happened with Harriet?" he asked.

John sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yesterday was four years exactly since she and Clara split. Harry claims she's over her, but every year she just... let's go. I'm usually there to stop her but I completely forgot, what with my mind on... Mary."

"So she got drunk then travelled to Baker Street from Tottenham just to visit you?"

John nodded wearily. "Apparently."

"Why?"

"I dunno. I think she wanted company, but it also gave her a chance to have a go at me about Mary. Well, I'm sure you heard her in the cab..."

"She and Mary were close?"

"Kind of, yeah. Mary was kinder to Harry than most people Harry knew, so she latched on to her, in a way. We three would try to meet up once a month and then I'd get shooed off so they could talk properly." John smiled slightly, but it soon faded.

"And now Harry's furious with me for getting rid of her – her words, not mine – and she spent three hours yelling at me in a hotel room whilst I tried to calm her down, then it was an hour yelling about things that have gone wrong in her life, and then she finally fell asleep. I spent the night dozing in a bloody uncomfortable chair and returned about an hour ago after she woke, only to find you spread-eagled fast asleep so late in the morning." he smiled again.

Sherlock smirked in return and leant over for his tea. "How was she this morning?"

"Irritable." John replied shortly. "She still belly-ached about Mary and I, but it wasn't as vicious as last night. I may have even gotten an apology, though it was quiet enough that I'm not quite sure. I just told her that the hotel room's hers for tonight as well and then left." John shrugged, getting up to place his mug in the sink. Sherlock too got up and followed him into the kitchen, knowing the doctor wasn't finished.

"And I'm sorry about last night, too." John said. "I know I've already apologised," he held up his hands to stop Sherlock's protestations. "But it wasn't fair on you to have to deal with her like that. I told her I wanted her to apologise to you and Mrs. Hudson, but whether she will I'm not sure yet."

A knock at their door made them both jump, and John raised his eyebrows.

"Blimey, that was quick." he murmured, heading out the kitchen. Sherlock heard him tread through the living room and open the door, only to hear it loudly slam shut seconds later.

"John?" he asked, moving into the living room to see the doctor staring at the closed door, his face a look of shock.

"What is it? Is it Harriet?" the detective urged, stepping forwards and grasping John's arms then moving so that he was blocking the ex-soldier's view of the door.

"John?" Sherlock shook him slightly, and John blinked.

"No." he murmured quietly, so quietly that Sherlock nearly didn't hear him. "No, it's Mary. Mary's on the other side of the door."


	5. Chapter 5

"Mary. That's Mary. It's Mary…" John babbled, backing away from the door. Sherlock steered him to the sofa, sitting him down and then perching on the coffee table opposite. He made no move to open the door; John was his main concern at this moment.

"This is good, isn't it?" Sherlock prompted, trying to look John in the eyes by grasping his wrists so he'd stop running his hands over his face. "I thought you wanted her back."

"I – I did, but I didn't think… I'd almost given up… Why is she here?" he asked, looking at Sherlock pleadingly.

"I don't know, John."

"What if she's only here to… because she wanted to tell me…"

Sherlock interrupted him. "She would have done that ten days ago if that was the case." he assured. John breathed out, knowing the detective was right. Sherlock could see he was beginning to calm down now that he'd had time to process the situation.

"Shall I let her in? I can send her away if you want." And really, there was nothing Sherlock wanted more than to make her leave.

"No, no… she can – she can come in." John replied, swallowing and running his clammy hands up and down his thighs nervously.

"Alright." Sherlock said wearily, and then rose to head to the door. He heard John get up behind him and move over to stand near the kitchen. Sherlock glanced across at him and the doctor nodded once, taking another deep breath and standing up straighter. It was easy for Sherlock to read John, and he could tell his friend was reprimanding himself for acting so childish. Sherlock chose not to comment and instead opened the door.

"Miss Morstan." He said coolly, deliberately using her maiden name. He had been tempted to address her as 'Mrs. Watson' and then correct himself just to note her reaction, but then decided that John wouldn't have appreciated it.

"Sherlock." she said quietly, making no move to enter.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"May I speak to John?"

"And what makes you think he wishes to speak with you?" Sherlock responded swiftly.

Mary had the decency to look abashed, and from the side Sherlock heard John softly say his name as a request to stand down. Sherlock was moments from arguing, but a small voice in his mind reminded him that he didn't dictate John's actions – especially in this case – so he backed away from the door, choosing to lean against the window nearest the sofa.

"Come in, Mary." John said gently, and his fiancée stepped forward hesitantly, avoiding eye contact.

"John." she acknowledged.

Nobody spoke for a long time. Everyone was casting glances at each other, never meeting the other's gaze. It was a good five minutes before Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Why are you here, Mary?" he asked bluntly, and he was a little surprised when John didn't scold him.

Mary shifted, her attention focusing on John as she spoke. "I'm here to apologise."

Sherlock snorted.

Mary's gaze flickered to Sherlock before returning to John. "Profusely." she added. "I wasn't – I don't want to leave you."

John didn't say anything; he continued to watch her, arms crossed.

Mary cleared her throat. "Sherlock, um, would you mind giving us a moment?" she asked, glancing at the detective.

John prevented the detective from answering. "No, he stays." he said firmly without offering an explanation.

"Alright." Mary said. Sherlock fought to keep down a smug smile.

Mary clasped her hands together. "I am… truly sorry, John. Leaving you at the church was horrible and unforgivable, and I shouldn't have betrayed your trust like that."

"No, you shouldn't have." Sherlock muttered, though it was loud enough for Mary to hear. Her expression grew even more ashamed.

"Sherlock," John warned, still watching Mary. He could tell that his fiancée was getting to a point, and she didn't need Sherlock belittling her every step of the way, no matter how much she might have deserved it.

"I didn't want to do it, John," she continued. "I had no choice."

"You've always got a choice." John countered quietly.

His fiancée shook her head. "No, I couldn't." She opened her mouth a few times, trying to get the right words out.

"What is it?" the doctor asked shortly.

She sighed, and wrung her hands. "I was – I still am – being blackmailed." she said softly.

"Blackmailed?" John repeated with a frown. He hadn't been expecting Mary to say that. He glanced over to Sherlock, who met his gaze and nodded once to confirm she was telling the truth.

"By whom?" Sherlock asked, his anger ebbing away only a little now that he knew Mary's actions weren't entirely deliberate.

"You won't… know him." Mary answered, her gaze sliding over to the sofa and then back to John. He nodded and she tentatively sat down on it.

"I was rather hoping we wouldn't know him." John said with a tight smile. The corners of Mary's mouth twitched upwards.

Suddenly, a voice drifted up the stairs. "John! Sherlock!" The trio could hear Lestrade racing upstairs, shouting loudly. "I've just received a text from Mycroft and he says Mary–" He stopped suddenly and stared, mouth agape, at Mary, who was watching him from the sofa with her eyebrows raised.

"–is not where he said she'd be." he finished lamely. "When did you get here?" he asked.

"About five minutes ago." she answered calmly, then glanced over to John, who was leaning against his armchair. "You've still been looking for me?" she asked quietly.

"Of course," John answered. "Greg, sit down." he added, inclining his head towards Sherlock's chair. The DI moved across the room and collapsed into it, running his fingers through his hair wearily.

"I didn't know." Mary murmured guiltily. "I thought you would've given up by now."

"I was starting to, but… Mary you're my fiancée." John sighed. "I wasn't going to just cast this whole thing aside with a shrug. I wasn't waiting for you just because I was going to marry you." Mary noticed the use of past tense and bowed her head. "I wanted answers."

"I know, and you deserve answers. I'm sorry."

John sighed again. "What for? You're not revealing anything."

"I'm sorry I left you at the altar, I'm sorry I haven't contacted you for ten days, I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was being blackmailed, and I'm sorry for causing you so much pain." she said imploringly, and Sherlock could tell she was itching to get up and go to John. He was surprised at her self-restraint, but then again she had always been level-headed; never over-reacting at the smallest things, which was why Sherlock had adapted to her so quickly.

"Blackmailed?" Greg piped up, his brow furrowed. "You were being blackmailed?" Mary nodded. "Into doing what?"

"What do you think, Inspector?" Sherlock snapped and Mary flinched. Sherlock nearly assured her that he wasn't snapping at her, but then he remembered that he was still supposed to be angry with her for hurting John. And he was, but he was finding it more and more difficult to retain that anger.

"That's why you didn't show up last Saturday?"

"Yes." Mary answered.

"How long before the wedding did you know you weren't allowed to go?" John asked.

"About a week." Mary answered morosely.

"A _week_?" Greg exclaimed. "Mary, you are in the presence of a detective inspector, a consulting detective and a man who loves you more than anything. Why on earth didn't you tell one of us?"

"Because I didn't want any of you getting hurt!" Mary replied, throwing her hands up. "I don't know what he's capable of and I didn't want you lot getting thrown into the line of fire."

"Since when have we ever cared about that?" John asked gently. "I'd do anything for you Mary, and I like to think Sherlock would do his best and Greg would most certainly help with what he could." John glanced over to Sherlock, and the detective nodded reassuringly. Mary noticed and smiled slightly, showing her gratitude.

"Mary, who's blackmailing you?" Sherlock asked, his baritone voice breaking the momentary lull of silence.

"He's – uh – he's a business man of sorts, and for a living he–"

"A name, Mary." John interrupted.

Mary nodded, then swallowed.

"His name is Charlie Milverton."

John didn't miss the way Sherlock's head snapped up, nor the brief look of shock on the detective's face.


	6. Chapter 6

"Charlie Milverton is blackmailing you?" Sherlock asked, regaining his composure in a flash.

"Yes." Mary answered.

"How? With what?" the detective demanded.

"It's a long story…"

Sherlock scoffed.

"No," Mary amended. "That wasn't an attempt to get out of telling you, I was saying that you might want to get comfortable."

Sherlock looked across to Greg who was sat in his chair just as the DI's phone buzzed. Greg pulled it out and read the text, before stuffing it back in his pocket.

"I've got to go." he said, getting up and moving towards the door. Sherlock dashed across to sit in his vacated chair. John smiled.

"If I come back later, will you tell me what you're going to tell them?" Greg addressed Mary.

"Of course." Mary answered.

"Right. I'll see you lot later. And Mary… it's good to see you again." he said quietly.

"You too, Greg." Mary replied, looking up at him and giving him a small smile. Greg nodded at John and Sherlock and then made his descent downstairs.

Mary glanced back at Sherlock and John, who were both watching her expectantly.

"So Charlie Milverton is blackmailing me." she began. "And it started with my step brother, Jonathan.

"He worked at the London Docklands for a good ten years, but recently he and I both came into great money from our father's inheritance. John, you know that." The doctor nodded. "And because of that money, Jonathan quit his job and is looking to work abroad in India.

"But then our half-brothers found out about the inheritance," Mary continued. "and they wanted in on it. One of the brothers, Thaddeus, got in contact with Jonathan and demanded he give them half the inheritance. Jonathan tried to explain that they weren't entitled to it because our father did not marry their mother, but Thaddeus would not listen.

"He told Jonathan that he and his brother would get a lawyer and fight for the money legally. Jonathan told him to go ahead and they did. Jonathan and I found out later that their lawyer had informed them that Jonathan was right; that the two brothers were not entitled to it."

Mary rubbed her hands together nervously, and then folded them. "And that's when things got dirty. Thaddeus' brother, Bartholomew, knew Charlie Milverton and he asked that he find a way to blackmail Jonathan into giving them the money."

Mary sighed. "Jonathan… has a shady past. He and his mother were poor, and my father wasn't the most attentive person in the world. So to get money, Jonathan would steal and pickpocket. He never did anything drastic to get money, but a few times he was caught by the police, be it for breaking and entering or pickpocketing. Charlie Milverton, of course, found Jonathan's criminal record and attempted to blackmail him that way by claiming he could easily frame Jonathan for something he didn't do, and the police wouldn't believe him because of his record. Jonathan ignored Milverton, though, and Milverton himself seemed to think that that attempt was weak.

"So then he found me." Mary said. "And I think he targeted me to get to Jonathan. He found out somehow that I was getting married soon, and contacted me about a week before the wedding." John put his head in his hands as she spoke, but Mary continued. "He told me not to go to my wedding otherwise he'd expose Jonathan's criminal record to his potential employers in India.

"Jonathan found out and he told me to just ignore Milverton, that I couldn't possibly miss my wedding. He said that he'd find a way to stop Milverton, but at the same time Milverton was blackmailing him to hand over the money or he'd break up my wedding himself.

"I'm sorry, John, I really am, but I knew how much that job in India meant to Jonathan, and I couldn't let him stay at the Docklands for me. I figured that by missing my wedding Milverton would be stumped, because I doubt he thought I'd actually go through with it. So I met with Jonathan the day before the wedding and told him not to give Milverton nor Thaddeus and Bartholomew the money. And then I… disappeared."

"Where did you go?" Sherlock asked.

"I stayed with Jonathan. He owns a small boat called the _Aurora_ and I've been there for the past ten days."

"Has Milverton or the two brothers contacted you since the wedding?" the detective asked.

"No, but it'll only be a matter of time before one of them does." Mary said. "Actually, it was probably quite risky for me to come here, but I needed both your help." she implored. Her gaze travelled over to John who was still sat with his head in his hands.

"John, say something." she said softly.

The doctor sighed, then lifted his head to watch Mary. "Where do you plan on staying tonight?" he asked.

Mary clearly wasn't expecting John to ask that. "I – uh – I was going to go back to the _Aurora_." she explained. "I'm sorry, but I can't go back to our house yet."

"Alright." John answered, nodding slightly.

"I should probably go now, to be honest. Jonathan will want to know where I am."

John looked like he wanted to say something, but he kept it to himself. Sherlock chipped in.

"You haven't told him you're here?" he asked curiously.

Mary shook her head. "He would have been against it, but we really do need your help. Will you? Help?" she asked tentatively, looking from one to the other.

Sherlock glanced at John, and the doctor could see he was yearning to take the case. John switched his gaze to Mary, who was watching him with hopeful yet hesitant eyes.

"Yes of course we'll help you." he replied softly.

Mary released the breath she had been holding. "Thank you." she exhaled, getting to her feet and moving forward. John got up too and met her halfway, embracing her in a firm hug. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung on tight. "Thank you." she whispered, and John knew she wasn't thanking him just for helping, but also for understanding why she did what she did. He tightened his arms in response.

Sherlock cleared his throat and John and Mary smiled. They drew apart and with a squeeze to John's hand she left, though not before smiling goodbye to Sherlock.

When they heard the front door close, John turned back to Sherlock, a small smile on his face.

"So Mary's back." Sherlock said, fighting to keep the smile off his face that had formed at the sight of watching John looking so happy after a long bout of depression.

"Mary's back." John repeated, almost to himself as if he couldn't believe it was true. He sank into his armchair, dazed.

Sherlock leaned forward. "She wasn't having an affair, she didn't get cold fingers–"

"Feet."

"She didn't get cold feet." he amended. "It was just blackmail."

John chuckled. "Just blackmail." he echoed, and Sherlock smirked.

"Oh, God." John sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. "This feels like a dream. A weird, twisted dream at that. I nearly gave up on her, you know. I was planning to sell the house and everything."

"At least now you don't have to pay for the wedding by yourself."

The doctor laughed. "Yeah, Mary can chip in now." He shook his head. "I need some tea. Want some?"

"No thanks." John nodded and headed to the kitchen, switching on the electric kettle and then pulling out a mug.

"How much do you know about Jonathan?" Sherlock called, watching as John prepared his tea.

"Umm…" John paused, thinking. "Not much, to be honest. I know that he kept his mother's maiden name. Actually, Thaddeus and Bartholomew kept their mother's maiden name too, though I suppose that's a given, seeing as Arthur didn't marry her. And I told you they had funny names, didn't I?" John smiled as he came back into the living room.

"You did, but do you really think 'Sherlock' is worse than 'Thaddeus' or 'Bartholomew'?"

"Maybe not." John grinned. "But anyway, like I said, I don't know much about him. I knew he worked at the Docklands; I didn't know he had a boat. I knew he was looking to go to India; I don't know what he'll do there. I didn't know he had a criminal record, either."

"Have you ever met him?"

"Yeah, he comes round every month or so, just to catch up. He's nice, actually. Polite, smart, witty. I wouldn't have guessed he used to steal or pickpocket, though I suppose you would have known within the first five minutes of meeting him."

"Hmm, maybe. We'll have to work quickly whilst Milverton doesn't know – or so we hope – where Mary is. Are you working tomorrow?"

John nodded. "I have to, yeah. I've had too much time off as it is."

"Alright. Well, I can get information on Milverton and try to find where he works whilst you're not here… He could have some thugs loitering about but I'm sure I can take them on my own…"

John shook his head in exasperation. "Lay off it, Sherlock, you're not guilt-tripping me into coming with you. I really do have to work. And besides, you don't even know where Milverton works yet. It'll probably take you the day to work that out."

Sherlock huffed. "We'll see." He rose to his feet suddenly and scooped his violin up from the floor. He moved to the window and began to play a jumpy tune.

"Sherlock…" John began. The detective either couldn't hear him or he was ignoring him. John rolled his eyes.

"_Sherlock_." He raised his voice. Sherlock paused, clearly hearing John, and just as he was about to move the bow again John got up and placed his hand on it.

"What?" the detective asked, glancing down at the soldier.

"I want to know something." John started.

"Well? I've always said you could do with expanding your mind–"

"_Sherlock_. That's not what I meant."

"Then what do you mean, Doctor?" John paused momentarily, surprised that Sherlock had called him 'doctor'. Usually, the detective only did that when he wanted John to back off. Too bad.

"I want you to tell me how you know Charlie Milverton." he said determinedly.


	7. Chapter 7

"Who says I know him?" Sherlock retorted, avoiding eye contact.

"Give me some credit." John responded, moving out of the way as Sherlock brushed past.

The detective dropped into his chair and waited for John to sit opposite him before answering.

"I know him from my childhood. We lost contact after university."

"And what happened that caused you to lose contact?" John pressed.

Sherlock's eyes flickered over to him, clearly surprised that John had interpreted the fact that something had occurred.

"What makes you think something happened?"

"Honestly Sherlock? Well, the blatant look of shock on your face when Mary said his name kind of clued me in. And now, the attempts to avoid any sort of conversation regarding him gives it away too. So what happened?"

Sherlock drummed his fingers against his chair, obviously in no hurry to answer.

John smiled bitterly and looked down, shaking his head slightly.

"Come on Sherlock. A few minutes ago you were sniping at Mary every time she hesitated to tell us what happened. If I did that to you now, you would tell me in no uncertain terms to piss off." He leaned forward, trying to catch the detective's eyes.

"If we're going to stop him I need to know the history between you two. Normally, I'd tolerate not knowing everything but this involves Mary and therefore me. Please, Sherlock. I know you don't like talking about your past, but–"

"Alright." Sherlock quietly interrupted. John sat back in his chair, waiting.

"I met Charlie when we were both seven years old and I remained… friends with him for the rest of my school life. He was smarter than the other students, which made me more tolerant of him. Even at seven he was bright and he was always finding ways to surprise me, so I never was bored around him.

"He was talented, too. Whilst at boarding school he learnt to hack into computers and gain all sorts information on the students and teachers alike. He assured me that he wouldn't do anything with the information, though I was never worried about getting into trouble in the first place.

"And then he had an idea. He decided to… blackmail other students – and sometimes teachers – into doing things he wanted them to, using the information he'd found on the school system. But soon it wasn't just the school's database he could hack into, he could hack almost any company he wanted and by doing that he gained even more information on our fellow students and teachers.

"He got out of control. Knowledge is power, and all that. Nobody ever called him out on what he did – and everyone knew it was him – because they were scared he'd find something on them and use it against them. By the time we were in university he had just about everyone wrapped around his finger. He passed exams with flying colours – although he really didn't need to cheat. He showed off to get himself a girlfriend. He even managed to manipulate students into going against their friends and ratting on other people to him. It was becoming harder and harder to trust people, because you couldn't know if they were talking to Charlie Milverton."

"God, he sounds like the bloody Gestapo." John muttered.

"By then I was beginning to grow hesitant." the detective continued. "I knew more than anybody what he was capable of, and I didn't want him turning his blackmailing skills on me because if he devoted his attention on myself he would get a goldmine of family scandals and secrets." Sherlock chuckled humourlessly.

"Charlie seemed to sense my doubt, and one night he told me he would never do that to me. I could see it in his eyes that he was speaking his truth, so I relaxed. I became more… accepting of his hobby."

"Sherlock." John breathed, eyebrows raised in astonishment.

"I know." the detective replied icily. "And I realise your moral compass must be going haywire." John could hear the sarcasm in his voice, and he shifted. "But you want the truth and this is it." His eyes slid up to meet John's challengingly.

"Alright." John conceded. "It was wrong of me to judge. Continue."

Sherlock's tone softened. "We were roommates during university and it was quickly looking as though it would remain that way afterwards. Besides you, John, he's the closest friend I've had and I couldn't afford to live alone due to my parents cutting me off because of… reasons." he said quietly, absent-mindedly scratching his arm. "So living with Charlie was practical." John nodded in understanding.

"What happened?" he asked.

Sherlock sighed, looking regretful. "Mycroft happened."

* * *

_12 years ago_

"_For God's sake" Sherlock shouted, slamming the front door and marching into the living room to flop onto the cream couch near the back wall._

_ Charlie entered the kitchen, holding a takeaway menu and frowning down at him roommate. "Something the matter?" he asked._

_ "Mycroft." Sherlock muttered into the cushions, and Charlie nodded understandingly._

_ "What's he done now?" the brunette asked, sliding on his trainers and reaching for his hoodie._

_ Sherlock sighed and rolled onto his back. "Interfering again. He seems to think that now that my mother and father are ignoring me, the duty has fallen on him to mollycoddle me. As if I need any help from him."_

_ Charlie smiled slightly. "Won't leave you alone, hmm?"_

_ "No. He acts as if he always knows best and I'm always wrong. He won't let me make any decisions without sticking his big nose in first and it's bloody annoying!" he exclaimed._

_ "He sounds like he needs taking down a peg or two." Charlie murmured, flicking through the takeaway menu. "What do you want for dinner?"_

_ "Nothing. And yes! That's exactly what needs to happen to him. Now that there's a chance he'll get a promotion in this government job he's always wanted, he acts as if he owns the place! He's so sure he'll get it; it's disgusting how smug he is."_

_ Charlie paused, glancing at Sherlock. "If you want," he began. "I could… do something about that. Just to give him a taste of his own medicine."_

_ Sherlock glanced at his roommate warily. "What would you do?" he asked._

_ Charlie shrugged. "I dunno, alter a few files so that he doesn't finish a project in time for its deadline? Something like that."_

_ "Would you do that?" Sherlock asked, sitting up._

_ "Sure. Mycroft is always round here having a go at you, so I've seen what he's like. It annoys me too."_

_ "Thank you, Charlie, at least that'll keep him off my back for a while."_

_ "Speak nothing of it." Charlie said with a sly smile, heading towards the door. "I'll sort it out after dinner."_

* * *

_Charlie and Sherlock never talked about it after that night. As Sherlock had predicted, Mycroft hadn't visited him, so caught up he must have been in correcting his paperwork. Sherlock wondered how much Charlie had altered, but then he found he didn't care so he never pressed the matter._

_ About a week later, and on the night Mycroft would have found out whether he'd gotten the promotion, Sherlock stopped by his brother's house to pick up some text books he'd left there from the last time he had visited._

_ Without knocking, Sherlock brushed inside, knowing the house well enough to find the spare bedroom without having someone direct him to it._

_ He marched past the drawing room, glancing into it as he strode by, but then he paused. Slowly retracing his steps, he stopped in the doorway, his eyebrows raised at the sight of his brother._

_ Mycroft was slouched in a chair, gazing into the fireplace and nursing a tumbler of brandy. Everything about him looked defeated, and Sherlock quietly walked in._

_ "Mycroft?" he asked, and his brother jumped then turned towards Sherlock._

_ "Sherlock." he responded, sitting up and brushing down his suit in an attempt to look presentable. "What's the matter?"_

_ "Um, nothing's the matter. I was just here to grab a book."_

_ "Oh, well all your books are in the spare–"_

_ "What's wrong?" Sherlock interrupted._

_ "Wrong? Why would you think anything's–"_

_ "Mycroft." the younger Holmes deadpanned._

_ His brother sighed and then ran a hand through his hair. "I lost my job." he muttered, draining the rest of his drink._

_ "What?" Sherlock asked, sharply, shocked._

_ "You heard me, Sherlock."_

_ "Why? What happened?"_

_ Mycroft shrugged. "I don't know. I went to see my boss about the promotion I was hoping to get, and instead he informed me that I was fired. Said that he couldn't continue to employ me because of my past."_

_ "Your past? What are you talking about?"_

_ "I don't know!" Mycroft shouted, and it was Sherlock's turn to jump. The elder Holmes breathed deeply._

_ "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout. It's just… I can't imagine anything that's happened to me in the past that would cause me to lose my job."_

_ "Me neither." Sherlock replied quietly. "Unless they found out about the time you locked me in the bathroom for two hours." His weak attempt at humour did nothing to alleviate the situation, but he saw Mycroft smile slightly._

_ "If that was the reason then they should know about the day you stole all my pairs of trousers so that I wouldn't move here." he said softly._

_ Sherlock smirked. "I'm sorry, Mycroft." he said after a moment's silence. "I don't know what they were thinking when–" He stopped suddenly as a tiny theory popped into his head. The more he thought about, the more it seemed likely._

_ "I've got to go." he said suddenly. Mycroft glanced up._

_ "Alright." he answered, unsure why his brother was telling him this. Usually, Sherlock would just walk out whenever he felt like it._

_ Sherlock strode out of Mycroft's house and all but ran the few streets back to his apartment. When he reached it he raced up the stairs and burst into the small living room._

_ Charlie was sat on the sofa with his feet on the table, reading a book when Sherlock came in. He glanced up in surprise at such a loud entrance._

_ "You okay, Sherlock?" he asked._

_ "What did you do?" Sherlock asked lowly._

_ "Sorry?" Charlie put aside his book and stood up._

_ "What. Did. You. Do. You?" Sherlock repeated slowly. "To Mycroft?"_

_ "To – oh." Charlie smiled. "It was good, wasn't it? I mean, I didn't think he'd lose his job–"_

_ "TELL ME WHAT YOU DID YOU MORON!" Sherlock shouted, advancing on his roommate. Charlie stood his ground._

_ "Excuse me?" he asked, eyebrows raised. "If I remember correctly – and I do – _you _were the one who asked me to solve your little problem with your brother. Now, if a fake criminal record is what it takes for you to stop whining for just one _second_ then I damn well am going to do it. Problem?"_

_ "Change it." Sherlock growled, his eyes flashing dangerously._

_ "What?"_

_ "I don't care what you do. Change. It."_

_ "Let me get this straight. You want me – again – to solve the little spat between you and your brother, after I did exactly what you wanted me to?"_

_ "I didn't _ask you_ to get him FIRED!" Sherlock bellowed. "God, I can't believe you'd do something like this. Not to me, anyway!"_

_ "I haven't done _anything _to you!" Charlie shouted back. "So don't you _dare_ come in here and start throwing accusations at me."_

_ "You've gone too far this time." Sherlock growled._

_ "Have I?" Charlie snarled. "And what are you going to do about it?"_

_ "Fix it, you bloody arsehole." Sherlock said, turning and heading towards the door._

_ "Where the hell are you going?"_

_ "Anywhere but here. I'll be back to collect my stuff but then you won't see me again."_

_ "Oh, you and your sodding dramatics!" Charlie yelled after him. "Good luck trying to find anyone else who's willing to put up with you, you bloody psychopath!"_


	8. Chapter 8

"Mycroft got his job back then?" John asked after Sherlock finished talking.

"Yes he did. Charlie obviously amended it."

"But you never spoke to him again?"

"No." Sherlock said quietly.

John frowned, thinking for a moment. "Is that why you dislike Mycroft so much?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, glancing up.

"This sibling rivalry between you two. Is it because of what happened with Charlie Milverton?"

"I – I haven't really thought about it."

"It would make sense, if that was the reason."

"How so?" Sherlock asked, intrigued as to where John had gotten this idea.

"Well, your best friend versus your brother. It would have been difficult for you choose between the two, but in the end you chose Mycroft, resulting in the loss of your best friend. Perhaps you've resented Mycroft for that ever since."

"Since when did you become my therapist?" Sherlock muttered, rubbing his eyes.

John smiled to himself. "Maybe I picked up some bits from my own therapist, even if she was rubbish."

"Well, that would explain your method."

"Charming." John responded, getting up and placing his cup in the sink. Having finished rinsing his cup, he paused for a moment.

"Do you feel… reluctant to help Mary, then? Because of your history?" He moved to sit back down in his chair. "Because I'd understand if you did, and I'm sure Mary would be alright with it."

"I'm going to help, John." Sherlock assured him. "And anyway, since when have I been one to run from my past?"

"That's what I was hoping you'd say." John smiled. He glanced at his watch.

"Oh, I'm meeting Mike for a pint in about half an hour, so I should probably get going. Unless you wanted to come?" he offered, standing up and sliding on his jacket. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John grinned. "Suit yourself." he answered, moving to the door.

"John." Sherlock called, halting the doctor. John turned to look at him.

"What you said about Mycroft and me," the detective began hesitantly. "It… could be true. I mean–"

John held up his hands to silence his friend. "I wasn't asking for an explanation." he said. "You don't have to tell me, it's alright." Sherlock nodded, and John smiled again before leaving.

Charlie Milverton. Never had Sherlock expected to hear that name again. Never had he _hoped_ to hear that name again. He could still remember the look of contempt on his old roommate's face when he had returned to collect his belongings. Charlie had acted as if the detective had betrayed him, and perhaps in some ways he had, but not in the detective's eyes.

He hated to admit it to himself, but when forced to choose, Mycroft would come first every time. He hoped a decision between Mycroft and John would never arise because in that instance he had no idea what he would do. But aside from John, Mycroft preceded everyone else. He was sure that deep down Mycroft knew that, and he had always wondered whether that was the real reason his brother offered so many cases, and not just because he was lethargic.

If he was going to confront Charlie again, he'd have to make sure John was nowhere near him. If Milverton ever surmised John was his pressure point… well, he dreaded to think what the man would do to his friend. He'd already tortured the doctor by threatening Mary, and then she'd said he had somehow found out about hers and John's wedding. Mary had looked as if she had no idea how Milverton had known, but Sherlock knew and from the way he had put his head in his hands, John had known too.

John's blog. He wrote allsorts about his and Sherlock's personal life on there, so anyone looking to threaten them would easily be able to work out the duo's weaknesses. Sherlock could tell that John had made a mental note to limit the amount of personal details he put on there from now on, and Sherlock felt an inclination of guilt at the thought that it could be because of him that Milverton was doing this.

After all, if Milverton _had _found John's blog when searching for information on Mary, it was likely he would know John used to share a flat with Sherlock, and therefore a connection to the detective would have been found. Sherlock knew Charlie was the vengeful type, so it was only a matter of time before he'd try to make a move against the detective.

The ringing of his phone startled him from his trance, and with a frown he pulled it out of his pocket. Upon glancing at the caller ID, he heaved a great sigh. Speak of the devil.

"Mycroft." he answered, hoping his brother would be able to hear the irritation in his voice.

"Sherlock." the elder Holmes responded smoothly. "How are things?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock chose to ignore the chit-chat; not that he partook in it usually.

"Rather abrupt Sherlock, isn't it?"

"Mycroft." the detective replied testily.

He heard a sigh on the other end of the line. "John called me."

Ah.

Whilst part of him was annoyed that John had taken it upon himself to inform Mycroft an old... foe was back, another part was slightly glad he wouldn't have to do it himself. Still, he didn't know exactly _what_ John had told his brother.

"To tell you that Mary has been found? Yes, she showed up about an hour ago."

"Yes, he told me that, and he also told me about her... problem."

"I see." Sherlock responded. "You know she's being blackmailed then."

"I do."

"And you know by whom?"

"Yes," Mycroft said softly. "I imagine you plan on confronting him?"

Sherlock worried his bottom lip between his teeth for a few moments, considering. "There may be a way for me to solve this case without meeting face to face, though I doubt he won't want to make an appearance."

"He did love to show off." Mycroft mused.

"Yes." Sherlock agreed, remembering times during high school when he'd invited Charlie to the Holmes estate, and his friend had always won over his parents by impressing them with his vast knowledge. He was the only person Sherlock's mother and father had approved of, though he didn't know what they'd say if they ever found out what he did as a hobby.

"And by assuming he's won, he'll be more liable to make a mistake." the detective continued.

"He thinks he's won, then?"

"He'll certainly be feeling smug." Sherlock answered. "He thinks he's got Mary and her step-brother wrapped around his finger. He doesn't know she's consulted me."

"Be careful, brother." Mycroft said. "He's very... volatile."

Sherlock scoffed. "Mycroft, please–"

"I'm being serious. You can't be certain what move he'll make and you're only going to get people hurt if you strut around assuming you're right."

"No one's going to get hurt, Mycroft, I won't allow it."

He heard Mycroft sigh again, and when he answered, it was in a soft tone. "And how many times have you assured me of that fact, yet John is always cast into the firing line?"

"Mycroft–" Sherlock warned.

"I'm not trying to tell you what to do," his brother amended. "I'm just telling you to watch yourself. I don't want _you _getting hurt, either."

"I'll be fine. I always am. Is that all?" Sherlock asked.

"No." Mycroft retorted. "Just remember that you're supposed to be focusing on Miss Morstan. As personal as this is to you, it's still Mary – and therefore John – who are at the mercy of Mr. Milverton. And that is not a good place to be, believe me."

"I know." Sherlock replied quietly.

"No, you don't." Mycroft sighed. "But I fear that soon you will. Take care, Sherlock, that's all I'm asking."

"Alright. Goodbye." he said, disconnecting the call and placing his phone on the arm of his chair.

He was suddenly very tired, and it wasn't even five in the evening yet. He knew that this case was going to take everything out of him, and he only hoped it would be over quickly so that everyone would be back to their normal lives.

Mycroft wouldn't have to worry anymore than usual.

Lestrade would be back to arguing with the missus.

John and Mary would move back in together.

And Sherlock would be... alone again.

Perfect.


	9. Chapter 9

John spent his day at work thinking about the things Mary and Sherlock had told him yesterday.

Seeing Mary again had felt like a dream. An impossible, unimaginable dream that John never wanted to wake up from. True, the stuff she had told them wasn't exactly dream material, but the sight of her stood in the hallway and then sat on the sofa was more than enough to make up for it.

When he'd opened the door to reveal her, he had immediately assumed she was there to tell him she was leaving for good. After all, if she _had _gotten cold feet (and John still smiled whenever he remembered Sherlock referring to it as 'cold fingers') she would have tried to contact him straight away to reassure him. That was the sort of person Mary was.

So John had prepared himself for Mary's rejection; though perhaps not in the best way (he still cringed at the memory of babbling to Sherlock that Mary was behind their door, as if he'd just seen a ghost). And then it had come as a complete shock when she'd told them she was being blackmailed.

His immediate reaction had been relief, but that had soon been replaced with worry and a teensy bit of betrayal. After all, what sort of fiancé was he if the woman he was going to marry didn't feel safe enough to confide in him? Hell, he would have been just as understanding if she had gone to _Sherlock_ instead of him. The detective was far more likely to resolve this situation, anyway.

And then to find out the person blackmailing Mary was connected to Sherlock seemed to be the icing on this deformed, distorted metaphor of a cake. He didn't know whether it was a good thing Sherlock knew Milverton – at least then the detective knew how the man worked – or a bad thing – Milverton would also know how Sherlock works. Either way, he was glad Sherlock was on their side and willing to help, he just hoped nothing would escalate quicker than they'd anticipated and someone would get hurt (by the way Mary had described them, and the fact that they'd gone to a blackmailer in the first place, Bartholomew and Thaddeus seemed a tad unstable, and definitely needed to be watched).

When he'd called Mycroft to inform him of what had happened, the government official hadn't spoken for a few moments, clearly absorbing this information. The elder Holmes had then gone on to question John on what both Mary and Sherlock had said about Milverton. He had tried to answer every question Mycroft fired at him, but he was forced to say "I don't know," whenever he was asked personal questions, like "Where is Milverton now?" Every time he answered in the negative, Mycroft seemed to get more and more tense. John had try to assure him by telling him that Sherlock probably knew more, but Mycroft hadn't sounded convinced. It had been one of the strangest conversations he'd had with Sherlock's brother.

So that was how he spent the day, mulling over conversations from yesterday and worrying what Sherlock (or Mycroft) was planning to do in the future regarding Mr. Milverton. When Sherlock had told him of his past relations with Milverton, and what the hacker had done to Mycroft, he had assumed the elder Holmes had found out what had happened, and going by the stern tone Mycroft had used on him when he'd called, his assumptions were correct. He was almost worried for what the two Holmes's might do to him.

The worry was quick to evaporate, though, when he remembered the man was blackmailing his fiancée and her family, and he felt especially sorry for Jonathan Small. Out of the few times John had met him, he had surmised that the ex-fisherman was generally a good bloke. John also knew how much Jonathan wanted to transfer to India, and to now have that threatened, well, Milverton would now have four angry men after him, because John was most certainly not going to let him go unpunished, not after he'd hurt the woman he loved and his best friend.

* * *

Not much happened over the course of the week. Mary came round to Baker Street everyday for dinner, and occasionally Jonathan would come too. They told Sherlock and John that Milverton had not contacted them since the wedding, but everyone was still doing their best to locate him. Mycroft visited frequently, and often Greg would check in on everybody. Mary had told the DI what had happened and he had reacted with outrage, which served to fuel his efforts at finding Milverton. So make that five angry men after him.

Sherlock spent most of the week out of the flat. He was never there during the day, and only returned every other night to see if anybody had gotten anything on the hacker. He always got frustrated whenever John or Greg said they hadn't, and John could feel tensions in the air rising, with everybody snapping at each other or just outright ignoring them.

Evenings were spent with Sherlock, John, Mary and sometimes Jonathan, Greg and Mycroft sat at the kitchen table going through notes and suggesting theories as to where Milverton could be or guessing his next move. Sherlock had informed him that his homeless network was out looking for his residency, and Greg said that he had people in his division tracking down possible victims (past or current) of Milverton.

Mycroft was the one who located Milverton's business, and it was a tall building situated near the Thames, and away from any other businesses. The building itself was modern with large glass windows decorating the exterior. No one was entirely sure what sort of company Milverton actually ran, but everyone was able to surmise he was in charge.

One night Sherlock came back from the flat looking very tired and worn out. Over the course of the week, nobody had bothered to ask Sherlock what he'd been doing every day, knowing that they wouldn't receive an answer, but rather a snappy retort.

Without removing his coat, Sherlock made his way over to the couch and flopped down upon it, his face hidden in the cushions. John, who was in the kitchen preparing dinner, poked his head into the living room.

"Alright?" he asked, moving towards the detective. Sherlock turned his head and watched wearily as John came over.

"What's the matter?" the doctor asked, but he got no reply. He placed his hand on the brunette's forehead, worried the man was ill, but he found no increase in temperature.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked, and Sherlock shrugged.

"Don't remember." he murmured. John fought the urge to roll his eyes. He crouched down next to the sofa.

"Sherlock, this case is probably going to go on for some time." he said. "You need to maintain your energy so you're able to beat Milverton when the time comes."

Sherlock huffed in response and swivelled his head so that John was faced with a mop of unruly hair.

"No need to be rude." John chided.

"Go away, John." Sherlock muttered.

The doctor sighed and got up, heading back to the kitchen. If Sherlock wanted to be like that, then John was just going to steer clear of him. He was glad Mary wasn't coming round tonight, because he really didn't want her offering the detective another cigarette. The pair thought he didn't know about that, but he wasn't stupid, and in the days when he still lived in Baker Street it was easy to detect the smell of smoke, and it was just as easy to guess where Sherlock was getting his supply.

He shook his head to himself as he set the timer for the oven. He hadn't been that bothered by it purely because it meant that Mary and Sherlock were getting along. And anyway, if Sherlock was that determined to smoke then John was never going to be able to stop him.

John began to make himself and Sherlock a cup of tea, deciding whether to remain in the living room with a sulky teenager tonight or hightail it up to his old room instead. He decided he was going to wrangle answers out of Sherlock tonight even if it killed him.

Grabbing the two cups of tea, John walked into the sitting room, placing one cup on the coffee table next to the sofa, and then collapsed into his armchair.

"Where have you been going this past week?" John asked, taking a sip of his drink.

"I'm engaged."

John choked on the tea.

Sherlock turned back to look at the doctor, fighting a smirk.

"I may have misheard you." John croaked, clearing his throat. "Could you repeat that?"

"I said I'm engaged." the detective repeated.

"Yes that's what I thought you said." John muttered. "Who is the lucky lady?"

Sherlock turned completely to lie on his back, gazing at the ceiling. "Her name is Tracy Luckhurst." he answered.

"When did you meet?"

"Monday."

"Mon – you've known her a _week_?" Sherlock nodded. "A week and you're already engaged to this woman. Is that where you've been going all the time?"

Sherlock nodded.

John sighed. "Alright, what's the catch?" he said.

"She is Charlie Milverton's PA, and she's been informing me of the layout of his business; where everything is, what people do there, etcetera etcetera."

The doctor closed his eyes. "So you're using her." he said.

Sherlock shrugged. "For the greater good." he answered vaguely.

John rolled his eyes. "And what exactly do you plan on doing after this whole thing with Milverton has blown over?"

"Break it off, obviously."

"Obviously." John muttered to himself, then he glanced up at his friend. "Sherlock, you can't just go round toying with people's emotions to suit yourself. It's not fair on her, because she's going to be left hurt after this. She'll probably be heartbroken, if she was that eager to marry you – how did you convince her to marry _you_?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"No offence." John added.

Sherlock waved his hand. "Relax, John, it'll be fine. It was easy to see that one of the men working in... Milverton's version of PR clearly has feelings for her, so when I end it she'll go running straight into his arms."

John shook his head. "It's still going to hurt her, Sherlock."

"Oh, that doesn't matter now." the detective sat up, looking across at John. "We've got more important things to think about."

"Like what?" John asked suspiciously.

"Like the fact that Tracy told me any and every piece of information that could be used against someone is stored onto a memory stick that is currently residing in Milverton's office."

"What, it's just sat there? On a desk or something?"

"Presumably. No employees ever goes into the office, and certainly nobody ever takes one of Milverton's things for fear of being blackmailed themselves."

"So you're planning on retrieving it?" John assumed.

"No, I'm planning on destroying it." Sherlock murmured darkly.

"And how do you plan on doing that?"

The detective glanced up at him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I'm going to break in, of course."


	10. Chapter 10

"You're going to break in?" John echoed, eyebrows raised in shock.

Yes, that's what I said." Sherlock said in irritation.

"You can't be serious, Sherlock. How do you expect to be able to break into that building without some sort of alarm going off, or someone spotting you?" John asked.

"Simple. Tracy will be able to tell me anything I need to know."

"You're mad. Completely mad." John breathed.

Sherlock didn't respond, but a slight smirk made its way onto his face.

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Alright." He said after a few moments. "When do we start?"

Sherlock gave him a surprised look. "You are not coming." he said.

"Then you are not going." John responded swiftly, giving Sherlock a look that dared the detective to challenge him. "I can promise you now that if you go alone I am going to go straight to Lestrade and tell him what you plan to do."

"I've done worse and he's known about it."

"Dimmock, then. I doubt he'll be so understanding."

Sherlock opened his mouth retort, but he could think of no argument to shoot back, so after a moment he closed it lamely. John shifted, straightening his back in triumph.

"You'll be of no use to me." It was a last attempt at an insult, but instead of carrying the ice and venom the detective had been hoping for, it came out weak and petulant. John shook his head.

"Perhaps not, but we both know I'm better at handling situations in which we're screwed than you are. That is, I don't tend to piss our captors off as much as you."  
Sherlock had looked annoyed, but his frown soon disappeared and he smirked.

"Alright, fine. After all, there isn't much difference between sharing a flat and sharing a prison cell."

John chuckled. "You're that eager to get caught? I suppose for you it would make the expedition that much more fun."

Sherlock inclined his head. "True, but I'm positive it would be just as fun to see the look on your betrothed's face."

"She'd probably laugh and tell me I got myself into the mess, so I'd have to get myself out."

Sherlock smirked again. "Will you be ready to do it tonight?"

"Of course. "

* * *

Darkness fell as John and Sherlock climbed out of a cab and stared at the tall, glass building across the street. It was just like any other skyscraper in London; grand, empowering and most probably covered head to toe in security cameras. The closer the duo got to going through with this, the more John was starting to doubt the efficiency of the plan.

"Stop fretting." Sherlock muttered, his eyes also on the building opposite.

"Remind me how we're going to get past CCTV?"

"Mycroft." the detective sniffed.

That more or less explained everything, and John smirked. "He's in on it, then?"

"Unfortunately." Sherlock sighed. "It was... necessary. "

The doctor smirked again and rubbed his hands together against the cold. "We going to do this, then, or what?"

Sherlock chuckled in response and the two crossed the street and headed towards the main entrance.

"We're just going to walk in the front door?" John asked incredulously as Sherlock checked his watch.

"More or less." he answered. "I managed to obtain a master key," Sherlock brandished it from his pocket. "when I met with Tracy this morning. It would seem Charlie trusts her a lot if he's willing to give his PA a key to all the rooms in this building."

"And what about security? Not the cameras," he amended as Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, obviously thinking John had zoned out for the explanation he'd provided moments ago. "I meant people. There's bound to be night guards coming round every so often."

Sherlock fitted the and twisted it, unlocking the door. "The next watchman isn't due to come by here in the next fifteen minutes, and near Charlie's office no one will pass for the next half hour."

"So, what, try to be in and out within twenty minutes?"

"Yes, that's the idea." Sherlock answered.

"Perfect." John muttered. The detective ignored him in favour of quietly pushing open the door. He paused suddenly, and closed it.

"It would probably be best if we kept the talking to a minimum, and even then whisper as quietly as possible."

John nodded and Sherlock opened the door again, walking a few steps inside and holding the door open for John, who was not far behind. The lobby was near pitch black, with only the green fire exit signs above the doorways providing a source of light. John tried to let his eyes adjust, but even after a few moments of blinking repeatedly, it was near impossible to see. Unless they were night vision, John doubted the cameras would have been able to see them without Mycroft's interference. This train of thought soon led to another spotted flaw, and the doctor tugged on Sherlock's sleeve to get his attention. He felt the brunette tip his head downwards so John wouldn't have to whisper too loudly, and the soldier's nose wrinkled as Sherlock's curls brushed against it.

"What about heat or motion sensors?" he breathed. Sherlock's curls tickled as he shook his head and turned to whisper in John's ear.

"Very few people know of Charlie's business aside from his employees, so it would be money wasted on unneeded security measures." John nodded his understanding. "We'll take the emergency stairs; the elevators will be too noisy."

The doctor nodded again as Sherlock gripped his wrist and led him to the left of the lobby, towards a door that had a lit emergency fire exit sign above it. Ever so quietly, Sherlock eased it open, careful not to make it creak, and soon the duo were wordlessly climbing the bare and narrow staircase with a draught that was filtering in through the windows and making their breath appear in front of them on every exhale. The quiet tapping of their shoes - Sherlock's in particular - was the only noise to be heard as the pair continued their ascent, until they finally reached the sixth floor.

After poking his head out to ensure no one was there, Sherlock caught John's wrist again and they silently stole along the long corridor, grateful for the carpeted floor. Again, it was difficult to see, so John brushed his fingers over the left wall to feel for the doors.

Murphy's Law made it so that the door they were searching for was right at the end of the corridor. The journey there was understandably slower than it would have been in daylight, but eventually they got there, Sherlock releasing his grip on John to withdraw the master key and fit it in the lock. It opened with a quiet click, and the detective wordlessly snuck in, allowing time for John to pass in before closing the door.

"That was easier than I'd anticipated." Sherlock muttered, moving across the office to sit in the swivel chair behind Milverton's large desk.

"What exactly were you anticipating?" John asked, hovering by the door as a look-out.

"More patrolmen, for starters. I don't know, something a bit more exciting." he answered as he opened some drawers and rummaged through them. John scoffed.

"Right, because so far this has all been rather dull." he said, wandering over to a nearby bookshelf and picking up a small statuette. Sherlock noticed the doctor frown down at the space where the statuette had been and then pick up a folded piece of paper. The detective didn't pay much attention to him though - if it was something important, John would tell him. Instead he searched the drawers for the memory stick he knew Charlie had containing lots of secrets designed to threaten people.

Upon opening the third draw, he let out a small cry of triumph and pulled out the small, blue memory stick. Without hesitating, he connected it to the computer and waited for it to load. His eyes drifted over to John whilst he waited, who was reading the piece of paper he'd found with a deep frown on his face.

"What's that?" he asked distractedly, his gaze back on the computer screen in front of him.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Just a to-do list." he answered, though Sherlock was no longer listening. The detective didn't see him slip the paper into his pocket.

"What are you doing?" John asked, moving over to stand behind Sherlock, watching the brunette drag numerous files into a folder.

"I'm putting all the files on this computer on the memory stick, which we are going to walk out with in a moment. Taking longer than I expected, though." he huffed, tapping his fingers impatiently.

"So when Milverton comes into work tomorrow, there'll be no data on the system whatsoever?" John clarified.

"Precisely."

John wandered over to the window, loitering near the blinds whilst he looked down at the street below. The drumming of Sherlock's fingers was the only sound in the room as the doctor continued to watch the few people ambling past, most likely drunk. His eyes snagged on one figure, though, and he swore.

"Sherlock." he called.

"Mmm?"

"Milverton's coming."

"_What_?" the detective asked sharply, rising to his feet and joining John at the window. He too swore when he saw Milverton and another figured dressed smartly strolling towards them.

"We've got to go." John said hurriedly, moving to the door and checking no one was there. He glanced back at Sherlock, who was back at the desk and glaring at the computer monitor. "Sherlock, come on!"

"One minute, the files are still downloading."

"We haven't got a minute!" he hissed.

"Almost done... there!" Sherlock snatched the memory stick from the computer just as John swung open the door and headed into the corridor. Sherlock was quick to follow, but his foot snagged on the rug by the door and he tumbled to the floor, his hands grasping at a small side table holding a vase and bringing that down with him too. The vase smashed upon impact at the same time Sherlock's head hit the ground, and he heard John stop walking and presumably turn round to see what had happened.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, get up!" he whispered, and the detective did so as fast as possible. He rushed out of the office and began to catch up to John, who was halfway between the office and the emergency staircase. Ahead of them, two security men veered around the corner and shouted at them to stop, though the duo only increased their speed.

John reached the fire escape door first and shoved it open, disappearing from sight as Sherlock came to the door a few seconds later. The two security guards were about a metre away as Sherlock dashed down the stairs after John, and they showed no signs of stopping.

Murphy's Law intervened once again at this point. As Sherlock swung himself round another corner in the staircase - probably now level with the second floor - his left foot tripped over nothing in particular and he was sent flying down the next seven steps until the next floor. Nothing was broken, thankfully, but his head collided with another hard surface within the space of two minutes, and this surface was harder than the office carpet.

He tumbled to a stop with a loud groan, and raised his hand to check his head wound. His hand was caught, however, by a familiar one.

"You and your bloody big feet." he heard John mutter, and he closed his eyes against the double vision and the bolts of pain ricocheting around his head.

"No, stay awake, Mike, come on."

Mike? Who was Mike? Was John calling _him_ Mike? God, he must really be concussed if he was starting to hear things. He felt John yank him to his feet, and though his legs threatened to give out on him, John didn't give them a chance as he grasped Sherlock's hand and rushed him back into the lobby.

John paused suddenly, knowing they couldn't get out the front, and he tried not to stumble as Sherlock ran into him. Sherlock's vision was rapidly sliding downhill - quite literally - and it was all the detective could do to not slide to the floor bonelessly.

But then John was tugging at his hand again, leading the unstable detective to the back of the building, where they were met with another fire escape. John released his hand to have a go at the door, and Sherlock swayed on the spot for a few moments before deciding that leaning on the wall would be the best course of action.

John pushed down on the bar attached to the door, but it would not open. Shouts from behind that reminded him of their current situation made him curse.

"They've locked it." he muttered, and then with a step back, he delivered a swift but strong kick to the door, coaxing it open. He had to do it twice more before it yielded, and once it was done he took Sherlock's arm and dragged them both outside into an alleyway. John let go of Sherlock and slammed the door shut, grabbing a nearby bin and stowing it in front of the opening to prevent anyone from getting out.

"Come on, Sherlock." John said gently, taking Sherlock's arm in a softer grip and guiding him towards the street. "They'll probably loop round so we have to keep moving. I'll check your head in a moment."

The detective did his best to remain steady, but by the time they reached the street he was beginning to lean on John slightly.

"Nearly there." John muttered. _Nearly where?_ Sherlock thought to himself. Had he missed out John saying where they were going? His headache was beginning to cripple him, and he could feel warm blood trickling down his face. He needed to sit down soon, otherwise he was going to be on the floor whether he'd chosen to or not.

The sudden blaring of a horn startled them both, and they turned towards the noise to see a car speeding down the street towards them. Sherlock shielded his eyes from the blinding headlights as the black BMW came to a sudden stop next to them and the back door was thrown open.

"And here's big brother to save the day." Sherlock muttered.

"And I've never been more pleased to see him." John retorted. "Come on." The doctor stepped forward and slid into car, and reluctantly Sherlock followed, closing the door behind him. The car pulled away quickly and Sherlock winced at the sudden jolt.

"Let me see you." John commanded, grasping Sherlock's chin and turning it towards him. Whilst John prodded and poked at the wound on his head - eliciting several hisses - Sherlock's eyes travelled past him to catalogue the other passengers in the back. Mycroft was sat opposite them, watching with furrowed brows and his mouth set into a firm line, and then next to John and sat on the left seat was -

"What the bloody hell do you think you two were doing?"

Lestrade.

Sherlock glanced over to his brother questioningly, and the elder Holmes shrugged apologetically.

"He intercepted me at Baker Street, and I thought it would be quicker to just take him with me rather than try and be rid of him."

"Charming, Mycroft. Really." Lestrade said shortly. "Mind telling me what you two were doing at Milverton's workplace at two in the morning?"

"Why were you at my flat at two in the morning?" Sherlock asked. John shushed him and gave him a warning look.

Lestrade fought to keep his temper in check. "John?" He diverted his attention to the doctor, who finished checking Sherlock and turned to face the DI.

"Look, Greg, I promise to tell you everything in the morning but my main priority is this prat over here."

Said prat was fighting desperately to stay awake. John noticed his eyelids fluttering and nudged him in the ribs.

"Don't you dare, Sherlock. The cut's not that deep."

The detective ignored him, though, and he just had time to hear John say, "I need to speak with you, Mycroft too," before he fell unconscious, his head falling onto John's shoulder.


	11. Chapter 11

When Sherlock came to he was in his room. The curtains were closed and the detective had to wait a while to allow his eyes to adjust. His head was throbbing painfully, and his throat was parched. He blinked repeatedly and made to get out of bed to get a drink.

A pair of strong hands held his shoulders, preventing him from moving, and gently laid him back down. Sherlock was still too out of it to put up a decent fight so he gave in, resting his head back on the pillows and willing his headache to go away.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

Sherlock turned his head to the right to find John sat in a chair by his bed, watching him with thinly veiled concern. The doctor raised his eyebrows in question when Sherlock didn't answer him.

"Did you want some water?"

The detective nodded and John helped him to sit up, before passing a glass over to him along with two painkillers.

"Take these as well; they should help with your head."

Having swallowed the pills and taken a large gulp of water, Sherlock handed it back to John and then tentatively touched the wound on his forehead. Though it still hurt when his fingers came into contact with it, he was surprised to note that it had been stitched up. He looked over to John with a frown.

"I thought you said the cut wasn't that deep." he said quietly.

"No, I was lying to keep you awake, which obviously didn't work as I had intended it to. You hit your head on a number of sharp steps, I knew it wasn't going to be pretty. Add that to the bruised ribs and I am fully prepared to look after my most difficult patient."

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. He looked over the doctor and it wasn't difficult to note the exhaustion and weariness John was exhibiting, though the smaller man was doing his best to hide it.

"Eight hours." John answered. "It's just gone ten o'clock."

Sherlock didn't answer, instead he squeezed his eyes closed against his headache.

"You're an idiot."

The detective released a huff of laughter.

"I'm serious." John said. "We shouldn't have taken that long last night."

"It was necessary."

"No, it wasn't." the doctor argued, and Sherlock opened one eye to see John rubbing a hand over his face wearily. "You didn't need to download all those files."

"He was blackmailing all those people. Didn't you want to help them?"

John shook his head in frustration. "That's not what I'm saying. I thought we were just going to take the memory stick and get out of there. If we had just done that no one would have found us and we could have gone to the police with it."

Sherlock remained silent. John sighed just as they heard the door downstairs open and close.

"I'll speak to them." John said. "Stay here and drink your water." Sherlock watched as he walked out and into the living room, just as whomever their guest was entered.

"Inspector Dimmock." Sherlock heard John say and he imagined the two shook hands. "Can I help you?"

"Is Mr. Holmes here? I have a small case I could really use his help with."

"He's very ill at the moment, and under strict orders not to take any cases, sorry. If you told me about it though, I could relay it to him later on when he's a bit better?"

"Alright." Dimmock answered. "There was a break-in last night at a building called Milverton Inc."

Sherlock tensed, and sat up (very slowly; his ribs did not agree this was a good idea), getting ready to get out of bed lest John was about to be arrested, but he paused to hear what Dimmock was still saying.

"The culprits weren't caught, and for some reason the security cameras were all down."

"Strange." John answered. "What was taken?"

"A memory stick, apparently."

"Hmm." Sherlock heard John murmur. "What was on the memory stick?"

"I don't know to be sure; Milverton's PA just told me it was vital information that could destroy the business if taken."

"Yes, I imagine it would." John muttered.

"There was an eye-witness account, though, of the two robbers."

"Was there?" John's voice didn't sound as confident as it did a moment ago. Sherlock tensed again.

"Yeah, hold on." There was a rustle as Dimmock rummaged about in his pocket, and Sherlock presumed he was taking out a notebook to read his notes. "Um, supposedly one of them was below average height–"

"The security guard could have been mistaken." John muttered. Sherlock smirked.

"–and he was blonde, and wearing a dark jacket and jeans." Dimmock continued. "But it was the other one the security guard got a good look at, because the guy fell down some stairs."

"Stupid of him." John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I know. The guard said this bloke was quite tall with dark and curly hair. He was also wearing a long coat."

John chuckled. "That's not the best of descriptions, to be honest Inspector." he said. "I mean, the guy could have been describing Sherlock for all we knew."

Dimmock laughed loudly, much to Sherlock's relief. "Yes, it does sound a bit like him, doesn't it? Lucky the security guard said the bloke's name was Mike, otherwise I'd have to ask Mr. Holmes what he had been doing last night!"

John chuckled. "He'd have to get past me if he was thinking of breaking in anywhere."

"Yes, quite." Dimmock answered, and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice. "Well, I have to get going I'm afraid. The case was a bit of a long shot anyway, but still, I'll see what I can do. Will you tell Mr. Holmes about it, though?"

"Yes I will. A small case like this is probably the best thing to get him back to normal." John answered. "See you later, Inspector."

The flat door closed and Sherlock waited a few moments before stiffly coming into the kitchen, where John had just flicked on the electric kettle. The doctor glanced over to him before resuming his search for a clean mug. Sherlock sat down at the table.

"Someone up there must like you, Sherlock, because I don't know how else we got away with that."

"I thought I imagined you calling me Mike." the detective said instead of answering.

John nodded, a slight smile on his face as he sat down with two cups of tea and pushed one to the brunette. "I figured it would be safer to call you a different name in case someone heard me, like they did."

"It was clever." Sherlock said, sipping his drink. John smiled in return.

"Have you told Mary?"

"Not yet, no. I've been here all night waking you up every two hours to check your concussion."

"You're tired." Sherlock stated, scanning the doctor critically.

"It's fine." John said. "I wasn't complaining, I was just saying."

"It's understandable." Sherlock replied. "You've had little sleep over the past few days, being so caught up in this case. It's beginning to take its toll, though, don't think I didn't notice you spilling some of your tea a moment ago because your hands were shaking so much–"

"Alright, Sherlock." John interrupted with a sigh. "Yes, I know I'm tired, but now doesn't really feel like the time for a nap." The doctor gave him a critical look. "How's your head?"

"Peachy." Sherlock replied. John rolled his eyes.

"Just be careful, yeah? If you feel dizzy or anything–"

"You'll be the first to know." Sherlock said smoothly.

John nodded approvingly. "Alright. What – er – what are you going to do now?" he asked.

"Regarding what?"

"Regarding the memory stick."

"Oh. Well, I am unsure whether to confront Milverton and force a confession out of him, which I am rather reluctant to do, or just hand it over to Lestrade straight away. If I were to do that though, I would have to take the time to alter Jonathan's criminal record."

"So you're just going to be spending the day mulling over the situation?" John asked hesitantly.

"It seems most likely."

"You're going to be here all day?"

"Yes." Sherlock drew out the word, and John shifted. It took Sherlock a minute, but when he worked it out, he rolled his eyes.

"Go." he said, sighing dramatically.

John grinned and got to his feet. "I'll only be gone for a bit; I promised her lunch."

"It's fine."

"It'll probably only be for two hours or so."

"It's fine."

"I'll be just around the corner if you need me."

"It's fine."

"I'll have my phone on me, so–"

"_It's fine_, John. Go already." He smirked slightly, watching as the doctor gathered his jacket.

"Alright, alright, sorry." John said. "You'll tell me, though, if you decide to do anything, won't you?"

"Of course." Sherlock said. "Go."

John flashed him another smile before taking his leave, the front door closing shut moments later.

Sherlock drained the rest of his tea and got up to place the cup in the sink. He looked down at himself and noticed that he was still dressed in the clothes he had been wearing yesterday, minus his blazer. He had half a mind to go to his room and put on fresh clothes, but found he really couldn't be bothered, so instead he moved into the living room and scooped up his violin, standing by the window as he began to play a soft tune.

So caught up in his thoughts was he, that ten minutes later, Sherlock missed the sound of footsteps on the stairs until the middle one creaked and the visitor paused. Sherlock stopped playing immediately and tensed. His first thought had been _Moriarty_, but then he had gone so far as to roll his eyes at himself and tell him not to be stupid. The footsteps continued as Sherlock put down his violin and faced the door, just as his guest knocked loudly. _There, see? It's not Moriarty; he wouldn't have knocked._

"Come in." Sherlock said, and the door swung open to reveal Charlie Milverton.

Despite the number of years that had passed, it was still easy enough to recognise him. His dark, full hair as a youth was now beginning to thin and take on a lighter colour, and a pair of glasses had added to his appearance. He was as tall as Sherlock, if not taller, and walked with an air of elegance about him.

"Sherlock Holmes." Milverton said with a small smile. He looked about the flat with a slight sneer before returning his gaze back to Sherlock.

"You're looking well." he said, though it was clear he didn't mean it. Sherlock did not respond.

"Consulting Detective." Milverton murmured, almost to himself. "Can that be considered a proper profession?"

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes.

Milverton sat down upon the couch. "I presume you know why I'm here?"

Sherlock perched in his chair. "Of course." he answered.

"Then by now you should know that your endeavour to beat me will not work." Milverton's eyes gleamed dangerously.

"Is that so?" Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow, knowing it would rile the blackmailer.

Milverton hummed. "I always win, Sherlock, you know that." he said silkily.

"Yes, because you blackmail people to get your own way. That's hardly playing fair, is it?"

Milverton smiled thinly. "Playing fair never came into it, and I can assure you that one way or another I _will_ get that inheritance money off Mr. Small."

"With what, the faked criminal record? Please, that's hardly going to work." Sherlock scoffed.

"That had been the plan originally, yes, but imagine my delight when I came across dear Mary. Though I must admit, I hadn't for one moment ever considered her fiancé would be your sidekick." he said with a sly smirk. "Oh, and I know it was you two who broke into my building last night. And it hasn't passed me that a certain memory stick has been taken. I would like it back, please." Milverton said, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock smirked, but then paused. Actually, that was a good question. Where _was_ the USB stick? He couldn't remember seeing it in his bedroom so was it in here? But then, Sherlock would have expected Milverton to just snatch it without waiting for consent, meaning Charlie hadn't spotted it so it wasn't in here (he hated to say it, but Milverton was just as observant as he).

Where on earth was it? He'd have to ask John later.

Nevertheless, Sherlock assumed a bored façade. "You really think I'm going to just hand it over to you?"

"You know I have means of ensuring you do." Milverton said, his eyes narrowing.

"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock challenged.

Milverton rose to his feet. "You always were a smug brat." he said, smiling falsely.

Sherlock too got up. "And you were a pretentious pig." he retorted bluntly, wiping the smile off the blackmailer's face. "Have a nice day."

Milverton sneered. "I've made my move, Sherlock, and I'll be waiting for you to make yours." And with that, he strolled out the door, closing it behind him.

Not a moment later and Sherlock's phone trilled. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID, only to frown when it showed an unknown number.

"Sherlock Holmes." he answered.

"Sherlock?" a panicked voice on the other end of the line asked. "It's Mary."

"Mary? Why are you calling?" the detective questioned. "Aren't you supposed to be with John?"

"That's just it. I was with him a minute ago, but – but–" Sherlock heard a quiet sob.

"Mary?" Sherlock pressed.

"They – three people came up to us on the street and knocked us out. I've just – I've just woken up and... John's not here, Sherlock. I don't know where he is. I think Milverton's got him. Sherlock?"

The detective stopped listening and instead sprinted down the stairs and out onto the street, his ribs protesting very loudly, but there was no sign whatsoever of Milverton. He had vanished.


	12. Chapter 12

"Where are you, Mary?" Sherlock asked, bringing the phone back to his ear after looking up and down the street repeatedly.

"Um – Connaught Street, I think."

"Can you get back to Baker Street?"

"Y-yes, I'll be there in a bit."

"Alright." Sherlock hung up and then dialled another number. He tapped his foot impatiently as the phone continued ringing but no one answered. With an annoyed huff, he waited as the automated voice on the end told him how to leave a message.

"Bloody Mycroft." he muttered to himself, then straightened when the tone was silent. "Mycroft, I hate to say this, but I need to speak with you. It's about Milverton. I think he's got John." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Please, I need your help." he added quietly, before hanging up and shoving his phone in his pocket, though not before sending a quick text to Lestrade, summoning him to Baker Street.

He remained on the pavement, waiting for Mary, and when the cab pulled up five minutes later, Sherlock stepped forward and helped Mary out. She had a number of cuts decorating her face, and a purple bruise was beginning to form just under her left eye. Her clothes were ruffled, she was favouring her right leg, and it was clear she had been crying. Even now, she was sniffing and wiping her eyes in a vain attempt to prevent Sherlock from noticing.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, looking her up and down for any injuries she could be hiding.

Mary waved him off. "I'm – I'm fine." she said, though it wasn't very convincing.

"Come on." Sherlock commanded, leading her inside. He knocked upon Mrs. Hudson's door and waited a few moments before it opened. His landlady took one look at the gash on Sherlock's forehead, and the bruises and cuts on Mary's face and then wordlessly stepped aside, guiding the pair to her kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson sat them down at her small table and promptly began filling a bowl with warm water. She came back and began cleaning the cuts on Mary's face, and the younger woman smiled appreciatively.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, and Mary switched her gaze back over to him.

"We were walking towards the café where we were going to have lunch." she began. "I don't know what happened – these men came out of nowhere and just... grabbed us. One of them got me whilst the other two had John, and they dragged us into a nearby alleyway.

"I think John must have thought they were there for me, because he started fighting back and trying to get to me. But then... one of the men twisted his arm roughly and I think I heard it snap, and John stumbled for a second which was when the other guy knocked him out with something. Then the man who had me pressed a cloth over my face - and it must have been doused in chloroform or something because I was unconscious instantly... and then I woke up half an hour later with John n-nowhere in sight."

Mary took a breath and Mrs. Hudson rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. The landlady had finished wiping her scrapes and had given Mary a bag of ice to press against her cheek, and the elder woman was now eying the gash on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock scowled at her suspiciously.

"John's already taken care of it." he said, leaning away from her inquisitive touch.

"Yes, but there's dried blood around it." Mrs. Hudson said. "Just let me wipe it."

"No, it's fi–" He was cut off when Mrs. Hudson pressed the waterlogged cloth to his head, causing water to cascade down his face and make him sputter.

"Be quiet, dear." she commanded, holding his head and angling the wound towards the light. Sherlock looked at Mary, who was smiling at them both and Sherlock wondered if that had been Mrs. Hudson's actual plan. He inclined his head towards his landlady, and the woman rubbed her thumb against his cheek.

There was a sudden noise outside the flat, and Sherlock could hear someone calling his name.

"In here!" he shouted in response, and a moment later Greg burst into the kitchen.

"What's going on?" the DI asked immediately. "What's happened to John? Mary, are you okay?"

"Sit down, Inspector." Sherlock said, silencing Lestrade, who sunk onto a chair at the table as Mrs. Hudson bought them all tea and also sat down. Sherlock looked at Greg.

"We are under the impression that Milverton has taken John." he said.

"Oh God." Greg said. "Where?"

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. "If I knew that I wouldn't be here right now." he said.

"Who is Milverton?" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking from one to the other.

"He was the gentleman who visited about half an hour ago." Sherlock said.

"What? He seemed so nice..." Mrs. Hudson trailed off, whilst Mary frowned.

"What was he doing here?" she asked, glancing at Sherlock curiously.

Sherlock shifted. "He came to warn me off your case. Said he would take action if I didn't."

"He's quick, I'll give him that." Greg muttered, sipping his tea. "But why go for John? Surely that'd be something he'd do if he was targeting _you_, seeing as everybody knows he's your weak spot."

"That's not entirely reassuring, Inspector." Sherlock snapped.

"Sorry. But I thought it was Jonathan Small he was after. John doesn't know him all that well, does he?"

Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I knew Milverton from my childhood." he said eventually. "We had a... falling out, and now that I'm involved, he's aiming to get back at me, too."

"Ah." Greg said solemnly. Mary watched him grimly.

"Can't you track John's phone or something? GPS?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I removed the GPS for an experiment a while back." he admitted. "And ever since I've not been capable of enabling it again."

"What? What on earth was that experiment for?"

"It doesn't matter now." Sherlock waved him off. "We'll have to think of something else."

There were a couple of minutes of silence as everybody tried to think of ways to track the illusive blackmailer. Five minutes later, Greg frowned.

"Couldn't Mycroft help?" he asked. "Don't tell me you're refusing to speak to him about this."

Sherlock shook his head. "I've already attempted to call him, there's been no response."

"What about Mycroft's tracker? Couldn't you somehow use that?"

The detective looked at Lestrade sharply. "What are you talking about?"

"You didn't know? Mycroft installed a tracker on John's phone ages ago."

Sherlock stared at the DI for a few moments before he raced into Mrs. Hudson's living room, searching for her laptop.

"How did _you_ know he had a tracker on his phone?" Sherlock asked, coming back into the kitchen and sitting down with the laptop on his lap.

"John used to moan about it when we went to the pub together. Mycroft used to just keep appearing wherever John was, and John had eventually demanded to know how Mycroft was aware of where he was. Mycroft had gone on to explain and John told me he'd been unable to uninstall the tracker."

"Why didn't he tell me?" Sherlock asked, almost to himself.

"Because you were dead at the time." Greg said bluntly, making Sherlock pause for a moment. "When you came back, I guess he wasn't that fussed anymore."

Sherlock frowned but didn't say anything; instead, he focussed on hacking into Mycroft's system to access the tracker.

"Mary, can you tell me what happened? We can at least begin to build a case against Milverton now." Lestrade asked.

"Yes, of course." Mary responded, and she went on to tell him what had happened at Connaught Street. Throughout the story, Lestrade's face got progressively pale, and when she finished he cursed.

"Bastard." he muttered. Mary nodded in agreement.

Mrs. Hudson had been watching Sherlock with a small frown on her face. "When did you call your brother?"

"Half an hour ago, after Mary phoned." he said shortly, eyes never straying from the screen.

"Have you tried since?"

Sherlock sighed. "He would have called me back if he'd simply missed the call or something. He's obviously doing something he deems more important."

Mrs. Hudson didn't look convinced, and she rose to head over to the landline attached to the wall. "What is his phone number?" she asked.

Sherlock blinked, and twisted to look at his landlady. "You won't be able to reach him, I've just told you. Why don't you believe me?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Wha–? It's the truth!" he sputtered. "I'm not ignoring Mycroft, if that's what you – I'm telling the truth! I don't think that just because _you're _calling, he's going to – fine." he deadpanned, giving it up as a lost cause and then giving the elder woman his brother's contact number. Everybody was watching and waiting, but after a few minutes she put the phone down.

"No answer." she said, going over to the kitchen sink to wash her teacup. Lestrade and Mary looked dejected. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I told you that would hap–" He was cut off when Mrs. Hudson swiped him over the head with her dishcloth. The detective pouted and sullenly refocused his attention on the laptop.

The minutes pass in silence, each individual worrying about John and the situation as a whole, and feeling utterly useless as to what to do. Sherlock was entirely focused on guessing Mycroft's password, whilst Greg rubbed Mary's arm soothingly. Mrs Hudson made more tea.

Ten minutes later and the silence was broken suddenly by the ringing of Sherlock's phone. He picked it up and glanced at the caller ID, and his heart lurched when he saw John's name appear. Of course, it wouldn't be John himself, so Sherlock prepared himself to speak to his blogger's captors.

"Sherlock Holmes." he announced, and was rewarded with the sound of heavy breathing for a few moments.

"Sherlock?" The detective instantly got to his feet, gripping the phone tightly. "How's your head?"

"How's my – for God's sakes, John, where are you?" he asked quickly, and everybody else looked up sharply when they understood who Sherlock was talking to.

"Milverton's business place." the doctor panted. "I woke up in his office. M'not there now, though, managed to knock out the people who grabbed me."

Sherlock heard John cry out suddenly, and his knuckles whitened on the grip of his phone.

"I'm fine." John breathed, knowing Sherlock was about to ask. "Just tripped. I've gotta keep moving so they don't find me."

"Alright." Sherlock said. "I'm coming, I'll get you. Where do you think you'll be?"

"Dunno, maybe in one of the alleyways nearby? How about the one where we were when Mycroft picked us up last night?"

"Okay, fine, I'll be there." Sherlock motioned to Lestrade, and the DI stood up. Mary also rose and they began to head towards the front door. "How badly are you hurt, John? Is your arm broken?"

"There were five men I saw." John gasped, avoiding the question. "You'll have to be careful."

"I will, John, don't worry. How badly are you hurt?" the detective pressed.

"Gotta go, Sherlock."

"No, wait – _idiot_." Sherlock scorned when John hung up on him. He turned to Lestrade. "We've got to go, now."

"Of course." Greg said. "Whereabouts?" But Sherlock ignored him, glancing at Mary.

"You're not coming." he said with a frown. She crossed her arms.

"Yes I am." she replied defiantly.

"It's too dangerous." Sherlock argued.

"I don't care. I'll be fine."

"No, you'll be better off here with Mrs. Hudson, in case John or Mycroft calls."

"John will call _you_ if he needs to, and I have to be there when we find him."

Sherlock scowled at her, but relented. "Alright, fine. After you." He held his arm open to the door, and she stepped through it. Greg made to follow, but Sherlock caught his arm.

"Have you brought your car?" Lestrade nodded. "Good, go unlock it and wait there."

"Will do." the DI waited for Sherlock to walk in front, and when they reached the pavement, he moved over to his car which was parked down the street.

Sherlock stood next to Mary, who hadn't noticed Greg walk off, and hailed a cab. When the taxi stopped, the detective opened the door and stepped aside to let Mary in. She smiled her thanks and Sherlock moved to the cabbie's open window.

"Bedford Gardens, Kensington, please." he said, and the cabbie nodded. Quickly, Sherlock closed the passenger door and knocked on the roof of the taxi, the car driving off before Mary had a chance to realise what was happening. Sherlock swiftly strode over to Lestrade's car, and climbed into the front passenger seat. Greg watched him with his eyebrows raised.

"She's going to kill you." he said.

_"John_ will kill me if I let anything happen to her. It's for the best, trust me."

Lestrade shrugged. "Your funeral." he said, and steered away when Sherlock told him to go to Milverton's set of offices.

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry for the delay, but I'm on holiday at the moment, so updates may be a bit sparse. Still, I hope you enjoy it and don't forget to leave a review x**


	13. Chapter 13

This was his fault, Sherlock thought to himself as Greg sped them through London. This was all his fault. John should never have gotten involved, or rather, Sherlock should never had made it so blatantly _obvious_ to Milverton how to manipulate him. He should have cut Milverton off from the start, confronted him and found a better, swifter way to stop him. Hell, he should have asked Mycroft for help. And now, when he _did _need his brother, there was no reply.

And John had been taken because of him, and he had no idea how badly he was hurt. He wouldn't be surprised if the doctor didn't forgive him for this, especially for getting Mary injured. And on top of _that_, what's to say Mary herself would refuse John the opportunity to see him anymore?

"You're thinking too much. Stop it." Greg's voice startled him from his thoughts. He glanced across to the DI, who had his eyes fixed on the road.

"I'm not thinking about anything." he argued. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Yes you are." he said. "Let me guess, you are under the impression that this whole thing is somehow your fault, and because of that, John will never want to speak to you again, right?"

Sherlock looked out of the window, avoiding Greg's glare. "No." he said quietly.

"Just... get those thoughts out of your head right now, Sherlock." he said, shaking his head. "What on earth makes you think John will hate you for this? Even if it _was_ your fault – which it's _not_ – you've done far worse to him."

The detective didn't say anything.

Greg sighed. "Let's just focus on finding John, yeah? And then we can worry about the collateral damage." Sherlock didn't reply, and the rest of the journey was conducted in silence.

Forty minutes passed before Greg pulled up a few streets south of Milverton's business. The pair got out in silence and Greg checked his phone.

"I've called for back-up, they should be here soon."

"We'll have to find John quickly, then, we don't want the sound of sirens spooking Milverton's men."

Greg fought the urge to defend his actions – because he could hear the accusatory tones in the detective's voice – and instead followed as Sherlock began to march quickly down one of the alleyways, knowing that starting an argument now was the last thing any of them needed.

"Sherlock, we really should wait–"

"No time." the detective called, storming ahead. Lestrade huffed and continued after him.

Left turn here, right turn there, Greg was beginning to lose track of the number of alleys they charged through, drawing ever nearer to Milverton's business, and hopefully John. Greg himself couldn't remember which street he and Mycroft had driven down to collect Sherlock and John, so he could only rely on Sherlock's memory to guide them there.

A sudden shout from behind them made them turn, and they were faced with two men running towards them, guns in both of their hands. One of the men raised his arm and fired, the bullet skimming past Sherlock just as Greg grabbed his arm and yanked him around a corner.

The duo began to sprint down the alleys, turning this way and that and always conscious of the two men that followed. It was all but impossible to create space between the two pairs, and Greg was furiously reprimanding himself for not forcing Sherlock to wait for back-up.

"We're going the wrong way; we're running _away_ from John!" Sherlock shouted.

"Do you have a gun with you?" Greg shouted back.

"No, I didn't think to bring one!"

"Well then _that_ is why we are _running_ and not _fighting_! If we can put enough distance between us and those two blokes, then maybe we can loop round to Milverton's building!"

They continued to run in relative silence, trying their best not to make too much noise and straining their ears for the sound of shouts from anybody after them. Greg chanced a glance back just before they turned a corner, and noted with some relief that their pursuers were further back than he'd anticipated; they'd yet to round the corner into the alley Sherlock and Greg had just left.

Sherlock was a few paces ahead of him at this point, and Greg prayed the detective would not veer around a corner into someone looking to harm them before the DI could get to him. Never mind having to face an angry John if something happened; he dreaded to think what Mycroft would do if he got hold of him.

He watched as Sherlock swept around another corner, and his heart faltered briefly when he saw the lanky man crash into someone, just as he'd hoped would _not_ happen, sending the pair to the ground. Greg caught up in seconds and was prepared to fight the stranger off of Sherlock, but he breathed an almighty sigh of relief when he noticed John breathing heavily underneath the detective.

"Jesus Christ, John." he muttered, keeping an eye out for anybody else.

John grinned. "Good to see you too, Greg." The doctor glanced at Sherlock. "You okay? How's your head?"

Sherlock was too busy scrutinising John for any injuries to answer straight away. "I'm fine." he murmured, frowning at the doctor beneath him. His left cheekbone was bruised and he had a cut on his lip. As well as that, Sherlock could feel John trying to prevent the detective from leaning too heavily on his chest, suggesting that he had bruised - or broken, but that seemed unlikely - ribs.

"Good, then can you get off me?" Sherlock was about to protest when John went right ahead and shoved the younger man away. Sherlock sat back on his haunches and waited for John to sit up.

"What's happened to your arm?" he asked, gesturing to John's left arm, which the doctor was holding close to his body. John glanced down at it.

"I'm hoping I've just sprained the wrist, it's swollen a bit and I felt something pop. Best thing to do is to just not jostle it, seeing as I doubt we're going home now?" John looked across to Sherlock, who shook his head.

"Which is what I thought."

"Milverton needs to be stopped now." Sherlock murmured. "Did you bring a gun?"

"To a lunch date with Mary? No. _But_," he added, before Sherlock had a chance to moan. "I managed to grab two weapons when I knocked out the blokes who had me." He pulled out the two guns, and Greg took one instantly. The other two looked up and him with their eyebrows raised.

"This is the worst timing," the DI began. "but I am going to go back to the main road and wait for the back-up I've called. I know there's no way in hell I'll be able to convince the two of you to come with me, so we've got a weapon each. And for the love of God, don't get killed. Mycroft will have my head."

Sherlock smirked whilst John just looked grim.

"Alright, I'm going to go back the way we came and hopefully not run into those two thugs who we've seemed to have lost for the moment."

"Greg–" John began, but Lestrade cut him off.

"You catch that bastard." he growled, before turning and marching around the corner.

John looked across at Sherlock. "What do we do now?"

Sherlock got to his feet and offered a hand to John, who took it and straightened up, flexing his wrist experimentally. "We go back to Milverton's offices. By now he will know you've escaped and will probably be panicking; it would be logical at this point to expect the police to turn up so he'll be doing everything he can to destroy evidence. We need to get there before he disposes of it all."

"Oh God," John muttered to himself. Sherlock frowned.

"What? What is it?" he asked.

John startled, seeming to forget that Sherlock had been there. "Oh – um – nothing. I've just realised I haven't called Mary."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as they began hurrying in the direction of Milverton's business. "She's fine." he said. "A few scrapes but Mrs. Hudson cleaned them up."

"Where is she?" John asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "She wanted to come with myself and Lestrade but I tricked her into a cab and sent her to your flat. No doubt she's on her way now, but the danger should be taken care of by then."

John smiled slightly. "She's going to kill you." he said.

"Yes, so Greg has already told me. Yet you both seem to forget that I can defend myself perfectly well."

"We'll see." John said. "Actually, I should probably text her." He pulled out his phone and fired off a quick text, then stuffed the mobile back in his pocket. He glanced across at Sherlock hesitantly. "You heard from Mycroft? I would've thought he'd want to be involved; if only to exact his revenge."

"He won't pick up his phone." Sherlock said. "Must be busy." John hummed in response but he didn't say anything.

* * *

The pair continued heading towards the offices in silence, both of them keeping an eye out for any of Milverton's men, but no one ambushed them.

"It's suddenly gone very quiet." John muttered. "When I got out there were at least six men after me. Now no-one."

Sherlock shrugged in response, which did nothing to alleviate John's anxiety.

"What are you going to do then? When you meet Milverton?" he asked.

"Either we wait for Lestrade and his merry men to show up, or we go in ourselves and play for time." Sherlock answered.

"And let me guess, you're going to go with option B?"

"Obviously." Sherlock said. "We can't let Milverton get away with this. If he destroys all the evidence we'll have nothing."

"What about kidnapping and assault?" John muttered bitterly.

"He could just as easily pin us for breaking and entering." Sherlock replied. "Do you have the USB stick?" he asked, changing the topic suddenly.

John blinked. "I did, yeah. I kept it on me whilst I was watching over you and I meant to hand it over but I forgot. I only remembered when I was in the cab to meet Mary. When we met I gave it to her, just in case we got jumped, which was a good idea seeing as we _did_ get jumped."

"So that means it's currently in Kensington with her." Sherlock said.

"Unless it's in her bag which she normally carries round, and you said she'll probably come here."

"Which is the last thing we want." Sherlock murmured. "Can you text her? Tell her not to bring it with her."

"I'll try, but she might already be in a cab." John fished out his phone again and quickly sent another text.

A few minutes later and Milverton's offices were in sight. Sherlock and John paused, considering their next move.

"Use the front door again?" John asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"We'd be shot within seconds." he said.

"I was joking."

"No, there's an underground car park underneath the building. We can go in through there."

"Are you sure?" John asked, shifting slightly.

"Quite sure. Come on." He led John through a few more back streets, before they reached a road that travelled into the car park.

"Sherlock," John said, placing a hand on the detective's arm. "When you said Milverton needed to be stopped, what did you mean by that?" he asked, searching the younger man's eyes.

"I meant that his actions have to be halted before–"

"No no, I meant _how_ were you planning on stopping him?"

Sherlock frowned. "What are you implying?"

John sighed. "I know this case is personal to you. But if you kill him–"

"I'm not going to _kill_ him John." Sherlock scoffed. "Perhaps hurt him a bit more than necessary, but–"

"Alright." John said, letting go of Sherlock's arm. "Let's get him, then."

Sherlock gave him one more look, before slinking down the slight descent into the car park with John following close behind. He heard the doctor turn the safety off of his gun and felt slightly relieved that they weren't heading in completely unarmed. He could always rely on John to aim true.

Sliding past the barriers, the two continued marching forwards in the large expanse of space towards the door. The lights were currently off, yet they made their way towards the glowing emergency fire exit sign, being able to see the bare minimum they needed to avoid knocking into cars.

The overhead lights suddenly flickered on – obviously automatic, Sherlock deduced, though he was surprised they had been able to detect the duo – to reveal just how large the car park really was. Lots of grey pillars supported the ceiling, and only a small amount of natural light flooded in through the opening to the main road.

But what completely stopped Sherlock in his tracks was Mycroft.

Who was located in the middle of the car park, tied to a chair.

With what was very obviously a bomb strapped to the underside of the seat.

* * *

**A/N: Lovely cliffhanger, I know. Hope you enjoy it and don't forget to review, and cheers to those who have done so already x**


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock was running towards his brother before his brain had even commanded him to. He could hear John's footsteps close behind but he paid them no heed as his mind began to furiously try and work out what the hell Mycroft was doing tied to a chair that happened to have a bomb strapped to it. And going by the loud beeping noise reverberating around the car park, they were on borrowed time.

Mycroft glanced up at the sound of them, and when he saw Sherlock his face froze for a moment, before resuming a blank façade. Well, blank to perhaps John, but Sherlock noticed the veiled worry hidden behind those steel grey eyes.

Sherlock crashed to his knees in front of Mycroft and instantly started to tug at the leather straps around his wrists. John knelt next to him and began to examine the bomb, taking note of the wires, time and also looking for any way to disable it.

"We've got two and a half minutes." he said, and Sherlock nodded.

"Give me your switchblade, John." the detective commanded, and John handed it over as quickly as he could.

"Mycroft, what happened?" Sherlock asked gruffly, sawing through the straps.

"Milverton happened."

"Cut to it, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped.

"I was... attacked as I was entering my office this morning." he said quietly, watching sadly as Sherlock continued to work. "They knocked me unconscious and when I woke up I was tied to this chair and Milverton was stood in front of me. He informed me that a bomb was underneath my chair - which I had already surmised - and I was, essentially, bait."

"Milverton wanted to lure me here? Why?" Sherlock muttered to himself.

John frowned and paused in his examination of the bomb. "I think the answer's under the chair, Sherlock."

"Yes, but the bomb is simply another way of destroying all his evidence." Sherlock replied. "Why would he want me to witness that?"

John cleared his throat and flicked his eyes to Mycroft, and suddenly Sherlock understood. This was Milverton's way of revenge; punishing Sherlock not only for disallowing Jonathan to pay the inheritance money, but also for choosing Mycroft over him all those years ago.

In the end, it was always going to be about that. John and Mary just had an unfortunate role in this, because it wasn't really about them, not anymore. Milverton was bitter. Bitter and envious that Sherlock had people who admired his great intellect, whereas Milverton most likely had no one; only Sherlock had ever shown any interest in his skills, and that had been twelve years ago. So here he was, flaunting his power in Sherlock's face to prove just how bad a mistake leaving him had been.

And now, because of Sherlock, John could easily have been killed if Milverton had chosen to, and Mycroft most likely _was_ going to be killed.

Sherlock looked down at Mycroft's legs, and noted with some surprise that a piece of thin wire was wrapped around each calf. Having cut the leather straps, he put the knife in his pocket and reached for one of the wires. A hand suddenly gripped his wrist, though, stopping him from doing so. He glanced up into his brother's eyes.

"You can't remove them, Sherlock." Mycroft said softly. "They are attached to the bomb." Sherlock glanced around the chair, and was able to note with a sinking feeling in his stomach that the wires did indeed connect to the small bomb. "As soon as they are cut or even tugged at, the bomb will cease its countdown and explode prematurely. There's nothing you can do."

"Don't be stupid." Sherlock muttered, his eyes quickly scanning the various wires.

"Sherlock-"

"Shut up, John." he snapped. The doctor sighed.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but there doesn't seem to be any way to disable it in the time we have-"

"John. _Shut up_."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said gently, and the younger Holmes stopped glaring and looked up at his older brother.

"You have to get out of here." Mycroft said, and he placed a hand over Sherlock's mouth before the detective could say anything. "Shush. John, how long left?"

"Under two minutes. Sorry."

"Whatever for? Now, Sherlock," he glanced back at his brother. "Listen to me. I want you to get out of here. You are not going to die here, I will not allow it."

"We can still sort something out, Mycroft. And what exactly can you do?" Sherlock scoffed, somewhat pleased that they were still able to banter.

"There's no time, little brother. And believe me, you will not be staying here with me."

"You are _not_ going to die here." Sherlock said tersely, repeating the elder Holmes' previous words. "This can't be happening." he murmured.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, but please, you have to go. You have to stop Milverton."

"Screw Milverton. I am not leaving you. John, what can you do about the bomb?"

John flexed his wrist. "I - I can't do anything, Sherlock. This isn't a cut-this-wire-and-everything-will-be-fine sort of bomb. I don't have the skills to do it in... a minute and a half, I'm sorry."

"Would you both stop apologising!" Sherlock shouted. "Mycroft tell me what I can do." he pleaded.

"Sherlock... go, please."

"Stop it, Mycroft, I'm not leaving you!"

"For God's sake," Mycroft breathed, his head hanging low. "John, please take yourself and Sherlock far away from here."

"Mycroft..." John sighed.

"Just do it!" Mycroft shouted angrily, his eyes blazing as he glared at the doctor. The government official blinked and his gaze softened, his fury leaving him in a breath. "Please." he croaked.

John maintained eye contact with Mycroft for a long while, as if having a silent conversation. They might have well have, for both men had the same goals; save Sherlock, no matter the cost.

John looked across at the detective, and laid his good hand on the younger man's arm. "Come on, Sherlock." he mumbled.

Sherlock turned to him and fixed him with a look of utter betrayal, so fierce that John actually let go of Sherlock's arm in shock.

"Don't you _dare_ side with him!" Sherlock said, shuffling away from John.

"Sherlock, please." John said softly.

"Stop it, John. Don't be an idiot."

"Damn it Sherlock, get out of here!" Mycroft commanded. "There's no point in all three of us dying, so please go!"

"Don't be stupid, John's not going to be here."

"Oh really?" John asked, looking affronted. "And what makes you think I'm going to leave you here? Or Mycroft, if I could do something." The doctor looked back at the elder Holmes. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. Truly."

"It's fine. Go." he said, nodding towards the exit. John sighed heavily and gripped Sherlock's arm again, ignoring the detective's efforts to break free. John stood and began to tug at Sherlock, ignoring his injured wrist to hold him tighter.

Sherlock was all but hauled to his feet, but he did not relent in his attempt to get the shorter man off of him.

"John, _let go_." he growled, whipping his head round to glare at his friend. The doctor ignored the severe gaze and continued to pull him back.

"Stop it, for Christ's sake!" the detective yelled.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said sternly. "Just get out of here, stop being so difficult."

"Difficult?" Sherlock repeated sardonically, still being held by John. "Jesus, Mycroft, you're strapped to a bomb! Did you really think I'd be breezy about all this?!"

"No, of course not, and I'm sorry you have to go through this, but I do not want you dying here as well as me!"

"Mycroft, we can think of something. Just please, let me think." Sherlock pleaded.

"We don't have _time_ to think, Sherlock. Now _go_."

Sherlock was still stumbling backwards, being guided by John, but he was doing his utmost to shake him off. John had managed to put a bit of distance between themselves and Mycroft, and they had staggered about halfway across the car park.

"Get off me!" Sherlock continued to shout, but the army doctor was too strong for him and they persisted in heading towards the exit.

"John, please." Sherlock begged, stopping and turning to look at the older man. John looked up at him sympathetically.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock, but I can't let you stay here, I just can't."

"He's my brother." the detective mumbled, staring at Mycroft, who had his head bowed in preparation.

John sighed. "God, Sherlock, you're breaking my heart. _Please_, come on."

"No. _No. _Let me go John, let me go!" he shouted, struggling again.

They were near the exit now, and outside John could see flashing lights and hear the loud sirens of police cars, suggesting that there was a whole unit waiting outside.

"Lestrade!" he hollered, in the hopes that the DI was out there too. "_Lestrade_!"

Footsteps sounded down the small descent, and soon Greg appeared in the car park. It took seconds for him to take in the scene ─ the sight of Mycroft strapped to a chair and then Sherlock and John struggling against each other a few feet in front ─ and he paled considerably when he saw the wires peeking out from under the chair.

"Oh God." he muttered.

"Greg, help me!" John grunted, just as Sherlock elbowed him in the gut. "Damn it Sherlock, stop fighting!"

Greg rushed forward as John transferred his grip to allow the DI to grasp an arm, and the two began to tug the detective back, moving faster now that John wasn't dragging Sherlock single-handedly.

Eventually, the trio began to make the ascent back up the exit, and as more officers ran over to help, Greg stepped aside and shouted at everybody to get back.

"Everyone move, now! There is a bomb in that car park and it will not be long before it detonates, so get back!"

Officers rushed to the patrol cars and steered them a few more streets away from Milverton's business offices, whilst John, Greg and two other policemen continued blocking Sherlock from the car park and moving him away. Sherlock was still shouting insults and demanding they let go, but no one listened.

After a while, they reached one of the patrol cars and quickly got behind it, the two officers running off to do something else and John and Greg kept Sherlock crouched there. The detective hadn't once faltered in his effort to break free, and even now Greg and John had to keep a tight grip on him.

And then the building exploded.


	15. Chapter 15

Everybody instinctively ducked, but no one was affected by the blast. Lots of people were shouting over each other, and Greg said something to John - though the doctor didn't catch it due to the ringing of his ears - and then marched off, presumably to tell everybody what to do. The sky was filled with smoke, and more sirens blared through the city in the distance, racing to get to the scene of the explosion.

It had taken a moment for John to remember Sherlock, and it was then he felt the detective slump against him. The doctor glanced down to see him looking unreservedly defeated and John had never seen him seem so small. The detective was on his knees, staring at what was left of Milverton's building over the bonnet of the patrol car, and he obviously hadn't realised he was leaning against John, the older man being the only thing keeping him upright.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John whispered.

Sherlock blinked, and fixed John with the coldest glare the doctor had ever seen him give. He let go of Sherlock's arm, and watched as the detective got to his feet and began striding away. John, too, got up, and tried to catch up.

At that moment, a cab pulled up and Mary got out. She took a long look at the burnt building but then caught sight of Sherlock. She scowled and began marching towards him, but John intercepted her, grasping her arm with his good hand.

"Mary, stop." he said, and she turned to look at him, her anger dissipating in a second.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her hands cupping his face. He tried to smile reassuringly.

"I'm fine Mary, really. What about you?"

"Oh, peachy." she said, taking a step back. "Where the hell is Sherlock? I'd like to give him a piece of my mind." She cast her eyes about the place, but the detective was nowhere in sight.

John took her arm again. "No, don't Mary." he pleaded softly. "Mycroft... he was caught in the explosion. He didn't make it."

Her shoulders slumped. "Oh, no." she whispered, placing a hand over her mouth.

"And right now, I really need to know where Sherlock's gone. You didn't see where he went, did you?"

"No. No, I didn't. But John, what about your arm? It's not broken, is it?"

"Hmm? Oh no, I think it's just sprained. I'll go to A&E just as soon as I find... oh crap." he muttered, and suddenly rushed towards Greg.

"John?" Mary asked, and promptly began following him.

"Greg!" John called, and the DI turned to face him.

"We need to get to Baker Street. _Now_." he said, and without waiting for the silver haired man to say anything, began striding over to Lestrade's car.

"John, wait. What for?" Greg asked, standing next to the driver's door as John hurried round to the passenger's side.

"That's where Sherlock will be. We need to get there quickly. Come on!"

"Alright, alright." Greg said, unlocking his car. John and Greg got in, whilst Mary slid in the back. Greg drove off moments later.

"Why the rush?" Mary asked, leaning forward.

"Because I'm willing to bet my left arm that's where Milverton will be, too."

"Milverton?" Greg echoed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that after all this, Milverton will want to gloat. He's going to boast and show off to Sherlock, to show how clever he can be. And the best place to do that would be right in Sherlock's home. Baker Street."

"And Sherlock would have worked that out in seconds and is headed there right now." Greg finished. "Plus he's got... what, a five minute's head start? Five minutes is plenty of time to kill a man."

"Which is why we need to get there quickly, to stop him. As much as I'd like to see Milverton suffering, a jail sentence is the last thing Sherlock needs."

"That bloody man." Lestrade muttered.

"Cut him some slack, Greg." John said softly.

"No, that wasn't why I was cursing. I was thinking that he should have at least waited for us so we can absolutely make sure Milverton doesn't die, regardless of what else Sherlock does to him."

John smiled slightly at that, and looked out the window for the rest of the journey, trying to ignore the guilt festering in his heart. He could tell Sherlock was angry at him ─ furious, even ─ and he could only hope they arrived in time to prevent the detective from doing something completely stupid.

Twenty minutes later and Greg's car skidded to a stop outside Baker Street. John was out first, throwing the front door open, racing up the stairs and rushing to a stop in the living room, mouth agape at Sherlock and Milverton.

The blackmailer was on the floor, laying on his back between John and Sherlock's armchairs looking bloodied and bruised. His face was covered in cuts; his lip was bleeding and his nose looked broken, and blood was gushing out of it. His left eye was swollen shut and a large gash decorated his cheekbone. Milverton's suit was crumpled and bloody and from where John was stood, it looked as though his right hand was broken.

And towering above him, with John's bloodied switchblade in his hand, was Sherlock, breathing heavily and looking for all the world as if he was about to strike the blackmailer. Scratch that, he _was_ about to strike.

"Sherlock, STOP!" he shouted, and the detective froze, the blade hovering inches about Milverton's heart.

"Please don't." John said softly, his hands outstretched. "Don't do this."

"John, get out." Sherlock growled, not bothering to look round at the doctor. Behind him, he heard Lestrade and Mary enter, and the DI swore under his breath.

"No, I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock." he answered.

"If you think you can talk me out of this─"

"Then I'd be an idiot, yes. But I thought everyone's working under the assumption that I _am_ an idiot?"

Sherlock's shoulders loosened, and the knife ever so slightly moved away from Milverton.

"Look," the doctor murmured, moving forward a few feet as he spoke. "I know I'm probably the last person you want to see or speak to right now, but please, this isn't the way to do things."

"I don't _care _about going to prison, for God's sake─" Sherlock began to snarl, but John cut him off.

"I know you don't Sherlock, but other people do. Mycroft─"

"DON'T YOU _DARE_ TELL ME WHAT MYCROFT WOULD HAVE WANTED!" Sherlock roared, turning on John so fiercely the doctor took a few steps back. "YOU HAVE NO RIGHT _WHATSOEVER_ TO SAY THAT!"

John nodded, his head bowed as he waited out Sherlock's tirade.

"This man killed my brother!" he shouted, spinning to face Milverton and raising the knife above him again, causing the man to flinch. "Who is to say he doesn't deserve the same ending he so callously gave Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice had lowered, but it still held enough venom to scare anyone from saying anything. Until John stepped forward.

"Sherlock, it would be incredibly stupid of me to say I know how you feel, but believe me when I tell you that I would be just as happy to see Milverton in a coffin as you." Milverton looked insulted, but he had the intelligence not to say anything. "He's threatened Mary, after all. And _no_, I'm not trying to empathise," he added before Sherlock could interrupt again. "But I'm saying that I am not talking you out of this because I think Milverton deserves less."

"Then what _are_ you saying, Doctor?" Sherlock sneered, and John sighed, knowing he was fighting a losing battle if Sherlock was now using formal titles.

"I'm saying that Greg is currently in the room, and it would be a very bad idea to do anything with him as witness."

"Add that to the fact that a whole troop of police officers more or less know what happened, then you'll be the first person they question if Milverton vanishes." Greg added.

Sherlock had his back to him so John couldn't see his expression, but he breathed an internal sigh of relief when the detective's arm lowered so that the knife was by his side. John began to creep forward, speaking softly.

"In another life, Sherlock, Milverton would be a dead man, but not today, I'm sorry. Let's give him a life sentence in prison instead, hmm?"

The detective didn't answer, still glaring down at the bleeding blackmailer. With bated breath, John extended his hand and slowly pried the knife from Sherlock's grip, trying not to move fast out of relief when he felt the younger man relax his grip and allow the doctor to grasp the weapon. John released his breath and took a few steps back, the switchblade behind his back lest Sherlock change his mind and turn on him.

Fortunately, he didn't, and John was thankful when he felt Greg take the knife from him a moment later.

Sherlock was hanging his head, and John watched him sympathetically. The doctor reached out, and gently placed his injured hand on the detective's arm.

Cold fingers suddenly gripped his wrist, though, and violently wrenched him away. John gasped and cradled his arm to his body, stumbling backwards as Sherlock shoved past him, heading for the door.

"Sherlock!" Greg yelled, moving to block the detective's path.

"Leave it, Greg." John said quietly. The DI looked from one to the other before begrudgingly stepping aside, glaring as Sherlock marched down the stairs and out of 221B, slamming the front door behind him.

John let out a heavy breath. "We really didn't handle that well." he muttered.

"Are you alright?" Both Mary and Greg asked at the same time, taking a large step towards the doctor, who held up his good hand.

"I'm fine, really." he said, trying to smile convincingly.

Behind him, John heard someone get to their feet. "Doctor Watson, I am very grateful to you for protecting me from him─"

John spun swiftly and slammed his fist into Milverton's cheek, sending the man back to the floor with an indignant squawk.

"Don't even _think_ about bloody speaking to me." John hissed, towering over him. "You are... _incredibly_ lucky I did not let Sherlock stab you where you lay. I was not lying when I said I want you dead too."

Greg moved over to Milverton, blocking John from him. "I'll take care of him, John, don't worry." he muttered, bending to haul the blackmailer roughly to his feet. John heard Greg reading him his rights as he led him out the door, but he paid no attention to them.

When they left, John noticed Mary watching him closely.

"So it's over now?" she asked, and John nodded.

"Meaning I can come back to our flat?" she prompted, inducing a small smile from John.

"Yes." he said softly.

"Good." she said just as gently, and stepped forward to embrace him tightly. Mindful of his arm, John wrapped himself around her and buried his head in her neck. They held each other for a long time, grateful to be finally able to relax and just appreciate one another.

Eventually, John pulled away, and he pressed a kiss to Mary's forehead. "I can't come back to the flat tonight, though, I'm sorry. It's probably going to be a danger night, and I need to be here ─"

"It's alright." Mary interrupted, holding a finger to his lips. "I understand, it's fine."

John smiled and lightly kissed the pad of her finger. "You're amazing." he said.

"I know." she smiled. "Now then, let's get you to A&E."

* * *

It was late in the evening by the time John got back to Baker Street. A&E had been busy, and John had had to make a few stops afterwards. His wrist had been examined and was now resting in a sling, and his ribs had been checked and confirmed as only bruised.

He trudged tiredly up the steps, wary about what he was going to meet in the living room. Mrs. Hudson had told him Sherlock had come back about half an hour ago and when she'd asked how he was, the detective had just ignored her. John didn't have the heart to tell her what had happened.

The door to the living room was closed, and when John turned the knob to open it, he was barely surprised to find it locked.

"Perfect." he muttered, before turning towards the door to the kitchen, only to find that it too was locked.

He knocked on the door to the living room. "Sherlock, let me in please." he called, his head bowed as he tried to listen for any sound. Nobody answered.

He knocked again. "Sherlock, open the door."

Nothing.

John sighed. "I'm not going anywhere until you at least tell me to go away─"

The door suddenly flew open, and John looked up to see the detective glowering at him.

"Go away." he growled, before slamming the door shut.

Going by the brief glimpse John had got of him, Sherlock didn't look drugged; his pupils were not dilated and he seemed perfectly calm. And obviously that wasn't enough to put Sherlock in the clear completely, but John liked to think he could tell if something was different.

He moved closer to the door. "Alright, I was lying when I said I'd leave," He heard a heavy sigh from the other side of the door and fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Can we at least talk face to face?"

There was no reply.

John sighed again. "Listen," he began softly. "I know you're angry with me, and you have every right to be, but you must understand my motives, right?"

No answer.

"I'm sorry about Mycroft, truly, I am. And I'm sorry we weren't able to do anything to save him, but neither him nor me wanted to see you get hurt unnecessarily, you need to understand that.

"So, you can keep ignoring me, but I care about you whether you like it or not and I am not leaving until I'm convinced you're alright."

Sherlock didn't answer the door, and John didn't really expect him to, so the doctor sat down with his back to the wall, absent-mindedly gazing down the stairs. He had been inclined to wait the night out in his old room, but he suspected Sherlock would be able to sneak out without the doctor hearing him if he was upstairs. So, landing it was.

An hour must have passed before he felt his eyelids drooping, and his last conscious thought was that he was going to have an incredibly sore back in the morning, before he drifted to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Only three more chapters to go, folks. Please leave a review and I am very grateful to those who have already x**


	16. Chapter 16

When John woke up it had just gone 9AM. He sat straighter and winced when his back protested. Rubbing the back of his neck, he stiffly got to his feet, all the while cursing the stupid idea to sleep out on the landing.

He turned and noted with some surprise the open door to the living room, as well as the open kitchen door. Cautiously, he stepped inside.

"Sherlock?" he called, looking about the living room. He walked down the hallway and stopped outside the detective's room.

"Sherlock? You in there?" He put his ear to the bedroom door, and when there was no reply, he pushed it open, fearing he'd find the younger man passed out on the bed from an overdose.

Thankfully, the bedroom was empty, and John quickly hurried about the flat in search of his friend, but he was nowhere in sight. With a frown, John trotted down the stairs and knocked on Mrs Hudson's door, hoping she'd be able to provide answers.

"Yes? Oh, hello dear." the landlady said, smiling at John. "You're looking better. Well, besides your arm." she gestured to the sling. "Everything alright?"

"Umm, not really, no. I don't suppose you've seen Sherlock, have you?"

"He left about an hour ago, I think. Why? What's wrong?"

John shifted slightly. "Last night... there was an explosion─"

"Yes, I heard about it on the news. You weren't there, were you?" Mrs Hudson asked, a frown forming.

The doctor cleared his throat and ducked his head, dreading what he'd have to say. "Yes, we were."

"What?" She sounded shocked, and her eyes had widened. "No one was hurt, were they?"

"Well, that's just it..."He trailed off, trying to think of a kinder way to say what he had to.

"John?" she prompted, looking worried.

He took a breath. "Mycroft was caught in the blast, Mrs Hudson." he said. "He didn't make it."

Mrs Hudson inhaled sharply. "Oh, the poor man." she whispered, and John wasn't sure whether she was talking about Mycroft or Sherlock. He supposed it would be suitable either way.

"What's Sherlock been like?" she asked eventually.

"Not good." John answered grimly. "That's why I was hoping you'd know where he was."

"Oh, I haven't the faintest." the landlady replied. "But you never can tell, can you, with that man─"

At that moment, the front door opened and Sherlock stepped in. John and Mrs Hudson ceased their conversation and turned towards him. The detective studied them for a moment, as if knowing they had been talking about him, before silently heading towards the stairs.

"Cold outside." John said to him. "Should've worn your gloves."

The detective ignored him and carried on up to his flat. When he was gone, John let out a heavy sigh. Mrs Hudson rubbed his arm soothingly.

"People grieve in different ways." she said. "He probably just needs space. I remember you locked yourself in the flat for three days when Sher─"

"Yeah, I don't think it's that." John interrupted. "I think he blames me."

"Why ever would he do that?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

"It's a long story." the doctor answered. "I'll tell you later; I have to go to work now."

"Alright. See you later dear." Mrs Hudson said as she climbed the stairs to find Sherlock.

* * *

John spent most of the week at Baker Street. In the evenings he went back to his flat with Mary, but otherwise he was at 221B, trying to coax Sherlock to eat and sleep.

He cooked for the two of them (one handedly, which he was quite proud of himself for being able to do so), making breakfast, lunch, and he sometimes stayed for dinner. Sherlock spent most of the time lying on the sofa with his back to the room, and every time John put a meal on the coffee table, it would remain untouched until the doctor collected it an hour later.

John was hoping it was because he was mourning that the detective did not eat, but one day he arrived at the flat to see Mrs Hudson washing up in the kitchen. He'd asked her why she was washing in their sink and it was with a frown, as if she was wondering why John was asking such a silly question, that she said she was cleaning the plate Sherlock had just eaten from. He had let out a quiet "oh," and then left, deciding that Sherlock was fine if Mrs Hudson was looking after him.

Whilst part of him was pleased that Sherlock was at least eating and not starving himself, another part of him couldn't help but be slightly hurt the detective ate only what Mrs Hudson gave him. He tried to quash the feeling down, told himself now really wasn't the time to be feeling sorry because his friend needed him, but he couldn't fight it, and instead relented and let Mrs Hudson cook for him from then on. He would be there for moral support instead, whether the detective needed him or not.

* * *

Mary visited the next day. John was working and she had a day off, so to 221B it was, ready to face the silent detective.

"Sherlock? Hello?" She pushed open the living room door and noted with little surprise the detective lounging on the sofa, his face pressed into the cushions. Mary stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, leaning forward.

"Alright?" she asked, trying to peer into his eyes, but he kept his face away. He grunted in response.

"That could be positive or negative, Sherlock." she said. "Give me something more."

"M'fine." he croaked, voice rough from disuse.

"Had anything to eat?" Mary glanced back at the kitchen, looking for any used dishes and trying to work out when the last time he'd eaten was.

"Breakfast." was the terse response.

"What did you have?" She perched on the coffee table, elbows resting on knees. She knew Sherlock was aware she was trying to engage him in conversation, but she did not relent, instead gazed at his back, waiting for an answer.

"Eggs."

"Tasty." Mary muttered. A sudden idea came to her, and she rummaged in her pocket.

"Cigarette?" Mary offered, holding one out.

The one eye Mary could see narrowed, as Sherlock tried to work out whether she was lying without turning to look. Eventually, though, he twisted round, and long dexterous fingers snatched the cigarette out of her grasp before spinning to face the couch seconds later.

Mary smirked. "Want a lighter?" That was taken from her too, and a moment later she was able to smell the fumes. The lighter was tossed over the detective's shoulder and Mary quickly caught it.

"Try not to set the sofa on fire." she said, and was pleased to see a slight smirk on the man's face. "John would have a fit."

And then the smirk was gone.

Mary sighed. "There a particular reason you won't speak to him?"

"Complains about me, does he?" Sherlock muttered.

"No, he doesn't tell me anything about what he does here, but I'm not stupid. Whenever he feels guilty, he almost becomes like you; doesn't eat and hardly sleeps."

"Why would he feel guilty?" Sherlock asked, though of course he knew the answer.

"Because you hold him partly responsible for what happened." she said. "Don't you?"

"Partly?"

"Of course; you blame yourself as well."

Sherlock didn't reply, and Mary knew from that that she was correct.

"You shouldn't, you know." she said gently. "Neither of you are responsible. There's a reason Milverton is in prison, after all."

"John shouldn't have held me back."

Mary sighed again. "Are you really going to ignore him because he didn't want you dead? Wouldn't you have done the same?"

Silence.

"Don't you think he feels guilty enough without your silence? He'd do anything, try everything to keep you alive because you mean a lot to him, and this is how you repay him?"

Sherlock didn't answer; instead, he buried further into the couch, away from Mary. She tried not to sigh in exasperation.

"Sherlock, I know you're angry." she continued quietly. "I know you're in pain and if you looked you'd see that we're all here for you. What happened to Mycroft was terrible, and everyone will miss him but please, don't take your frustrations out on someone else, especially someone who is only trying to help."

There was no response, and Mary studied him for a while longer, deciding whether the detective was going to grace her with an answer. When it became evident he would not, she patted Sherlock's shoulder and then left, softly closing the door behind her.

* * *

Two nights later John received a phone call from Harriet.

She was sobbing and most definitely drunk.

"What's the matter, Harry?" he asked, pacing about his living room. He wasn't overly concerned, to be honest ─ when Harry was drunk, she tended to get upset at the smallest things.

"Your s-stupid flatmate!" she cried, and John paused.

"He's not my flatmate anymore." he said.

"Oh for God's sake! That's what you p-pick up on?!"

"No, sorry, what did he do?" John asked tiredly.

"I-I went round to B-Baker Street t-to apologise..." She trailed off to blow her nose, but John could already see where this was headed. He was surprised she had actually gone round to say sorry for the night she arrived drunk; usually she just ignored anybody she upset.

"... and ─ and he shouted at me to go away, and then s-said that I was p-practically a f-failure!"

John sighed. "I'm sure he didn't mean that. His deductions might be a bit brutal but─"

"N-no, he actually said that!"

"He... did?" That was harsh, even by Sherlock's standards. He let out another sigh. "Alright, I'll speak to him."

"Good! I d-don't know how you l-lived with him for so long!"

"Nor do I, Harry. Bye."

* * *

"Did you really have to be so rude to her, Sherlock?"

"..."

"She was only trying to apologise, and I know she can be a pain, but there was no need to be so severe."

"..."

"Sherlock, will you at least look at me?"

"..."

"No? Fine, let's just continue the conversation like this, though to be fair, we haven't had a proper conversation in a week."

"..."

"Do you need anything?"

"..."

"Food? Drink?"

"..."

"Okay, I'll see you later."

* * *

The next day John was reading with one hand in his old armchair. It was dark outside and was a chilly evening, and he was not surprised when a burst of cold air followed the detective into the sitting room.

"Alright?" John asked, not expecting a response, and lo and behold he wasn't granted with one. He glanced up as the younger man moved towards his bedroom, and the doctor frowned when he saw a red mark on Sherlock's cheek.

"Sherlock?" he called, putting his book aside and following the other man into his bedroom. "What happened?"

Sherlock shot him a look that clearly said _go away_, but he ignored it.

"Let me see, please." He stepped forward and gently tilted Sherlock's cheek towards the light. He tried not to show his surprise at being allowed to do so; he'd expected Sherlock to pull away.

"Did someone hit you?" No answer. So apparently touching was allowed, but talking was a no-go. Fine.

"Nod if it still hurts."

A slight inclination of Sherlock's head.

Progress! They were definitely making progress.

"Okay, stay here." John walked into the kitchen to prepare an icepack, and when he returned to the bedroom Sherlock was sitting down on his bed.

"Hold it there for a bit." The detective took it from him and pressed the pack against his cheek.

John sat down next to him, watching him closely. "Who hit you?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

Perfect.

John frowned, knowing he'd have to work this out for himself. The mark looked like someone had slapped him rather than thrown a punch, so the person must have been angry (a punch could have been written off as self-defence or something similar). Meaning Sherlock had angered someone today which had resulted in him being slapped.

Being insulted would be the most likely cause, and the list of people Sherlock had insulted was endless. It probably wasn't someone who knew the detective all that well, because they would have known that if they ever hurt Sherlock, they'd be answering to John. So, someone who vaguely knew Sherlock but had never met John─

"Tracy Luckhurst."

Despite his voice being quiet, John still jumped at the sudden break of silence. He looked at Sherlock in shock; both because of the fact the younger man had spoken to him and at the identity of the one who'd hit him.

"She slapped you? Why?" No sooner had the words come out, John knew the answer.

"You broke off the engagement, didn't you?"

Another inclination of his head.

"And I'm guessing you didn't sugar-coat it." John muttered, and he didn't need Sherlock to make any gestures to know he was right.

John sighed. "I doubt there was a way you could've done it smoothly. At least it's done now."

He gave Sherlock a sympathetic smile, and then slowly got to his feet to make his way to the door.

"John..." The doctor stopped and spun, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Thank you."

John smiled in response, and couldn't wipe the smile off his face for the rest of the day.

* * *

"Sherlock? Hello?"

"..."

"Okay, if you hadn't noticed, this is a phone call so I don't know if you're just ignoring me or if you're in trouble."

"...What?"

"Could you come back to Baker Street please?"

"Why?"

"There's... someone here to see you."

* * *

Sherlock took his time walking up the stairs to his flat, deciding not to bother working out who wanted to speak to him, nor why John sounded so worried on the phone.

He pushed open the door, remaining on the landing as it gradually swung open. There was John, stood near the sofa with his hand consciously scratching his sling-cased arm whilst watching the detective with concerned eyes. Sherlock frowned and then examined the rest of the space... and promptly froze at the figure stood in the middle of the room, gazing at the brunette softly.

Mycroft.

* * *

**A/N: Ta da! I could never kill Mycroft off, I love him too much for that. Please review, and cheers to the wonderful people who have previously x**


	17. Chapter 17

Two minutes passed in silence, with Sherlock continuously glancing from John to Mycroft. Mycroft, who was supposed to be dead. _Had_ been dead, for the past week, so what ─ _how_ ─ on earth was he here?

His brother was watching him with a worried look on his face, as was John. Mycroft himself looked quite pale and drawn, and Sherlock wondered if he had spent the past week recovering. Now that he had a proper opportunity to look at him, the elder Holmes had a long scar along his left cheek, probably from debris hitting him after the explosion.

Still, the thought of Mycroft having been injured the past week did nothing to resolve his shock and anger at the prospect of being left out of the loop, and as Sherlock glanced across to John, who was watching him closely, he wondered if anyone else had aided his brother.

John took a step forward, and instinctively the detective stepped back.

"You knew?" he asked John quietly. John opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it and settles for a resolute nod instead.

Sherlock shook his head bitterly, shocked that John would keep this from him. He began to edge out of the flat, suddenly needing to get away from his brother and blogger.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called softly, and the detective flinched.

"Don't." he interrupted. "Just... don't." He turned around and walked out the flat, the door closing behind him.

John was about to go after him, but Mycroft laid a hand on his good arm. "Allow me to speak to him." he said.

John nodded. "Yes, of course. I'll ─ er ─ I'll be at work if you ─ or Sherlock ─ needs me." he said, before leaving the flat too.

* * *

Sherlock was gazing into his microscope in one of St. Bart's' labs when he heard the door open. He did not look up; instead, he twiddled one of the dials and waited for whomever was there to either speak or get what they wanted and leave.

"I did not mean you any pain, dear brother."

Sherlock jumped, still getting used to hearing Mycroft's voice again. Slowly, he lifted his gaze and looked at the suited man stood by the door, his hand behind him resting on the door handle.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. "How did you do it?" he asked simply.

"With John's help." Mycroft replied, looking down and twisting his umbrella. "You remember the night you broke into Milverton's office building?" The detective nodded once, looking anywhere but his brother.

"Well, after he had put you to bed he asked to speak with me. He explained that when the two of you were searching the office, he came across plans for a bomb."

Sherlock looked across at him sharply, shocked that his brother had already known about the bomb. And now that he thought about it, he could remember John examining a piece of paper whilst Sherlock sat at the desk and read through the files. John must have pocketed the plans without him seeing.

"As well as that, John told me that as he inspected the plans, he'd also noticed my name written at the bottom of the paper. I assume he must have found the link between the bomb and myself, and strove to contact me as soon as possible.

"Neither of us knew when Milverton would strike; be it at me, you or John. We certainly weren't expecting it to be the next day, but luckily, when John wasn't waking you up every few hours to prevent concussion, he was spending the night studying the drafts, looking for a way to disable the bomb.

"As you know, he was unsuccessful, however he had been able to set a delay on the explosion, so that once the wire triggers that had been around my legs were pulled, rather than the bomb going off instantaneously, he'd managed to attain an extra twenty seconds."

"But how could John have gotten to the bomb before Lestrade and I got there?" Sherlock asked, curious despite himself.

"You forget that between John being taken and you finding him, around an hour and a half had passed, which was ample time for the good doctor to work, despite his injured limb.

"I was already in the chair when he arrived at the car park, and as he worked he informed me that there was an emergency staircase several feet behind me ─ you might have seen it, I don't know ─ and it was imperative I got out of the chair, up the stairs and outside within twenty seconds, something I only just achieved, as you can see." He gestured to the scar on his face, and Sherlock nodded grimly.

"Why did you wait a week to reveal yourself, though?" he asked snappishly.

Mycroft's gaze softened. "The same reason you waited three years to reveal yourself to John."

"Don't be absurd. The conditions were completely different."

"In what way?" Mycroft countered smoothly.

It was obvious Sherlock thought about it for a few moments, but no response ever came out.

The government official sighed. "We needed to be sure that Milverton did not have anyone still after you, Sherlock. John took it upon himself to spend as much time at Baker Street as he could lest I missed anybody and there was a personal attack on you."

"But why didn't anyone tell me? I could have helped." Sherlock argued.

Mycroft looked down at his feet. "John wanted to, but I would not allow it as it was too dangerous, seeing as I knew you would hunt them down single-handedly and most likely end up hurt."

Sherlock was silent, his eyes back to the wall opposite him.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Do not presume that John was happy with this decision." he said. "He and I were often clashing over it because, I assume, he could see how affected you were by my apparent death─"

"I was not _affected_." Sherlock interrupted, though with too little heat to pass as anger.

"Regardless," Mycroft continued gently. "John did not wish to see you in pain, so throughout the week we argued, he on your behalf."

Sherlock knew Mycroft had finished his explanation, but he had nothing to say. His eyes flickered across to Mycroft, showing the elder brother the conflict that was looming in those icy orbs, over the decision to fight or forgive Mycroft.

"Just so you are aware that this was no cruel trick I played on you. Your life was in danger, and I had to do something. I do not regret what I did, and I wouldn't think John does either." Mycroft murmured, before turning and reaching for the door handle.

"Mycroft." Sherlock called, and the government official paused.

"It is... good to see you again." he muttered, avoiding eye contact and focusing back on the microscope.

Mycroft smiled to himself. "Likewise, little brother." he responded, and then he opened the door and left.

* * *

It was one o'clock in the afternoon when John pushed open the door to a deli café and ordered a sandwich and tea. He sat down at a table with a sigh, grateful to be out of work for an hour. Even though the clinic hadn't been very busy, he had still been wishing for some time to himself, to think, and now was the perfect opportunity to do so.

He should probably text Sherlock, to ask if he was alright. He knew that this morning had been a shock for the young man, and he knew exactly how he would be feeling. At least with a text, the detective would not have to speak to him, as John guessed he wouldn't want to.

"Is this seat taken?"

John glanced up quickly, and was surprised to see said detective stood above him, his hand resting on the chair opposite as he watched the doctor closely.

"Feel free." John stammered, gesturing to the space, and Sherlock settled down.

"How are you feeling?" John asked, taking a bite of his sandwich and trying not to wonder why Sherlock was suddenly speaking to him.

"Still... recuperating." the detective muttered, and John grimaced sympathetically.

"A lot to take in, isn't it?" he said. Sherlock hummed his agreement.

"Mrs Hudson told me she slapped him." the doctor said, and was pleased to see a smile cross the detective's features.

"Someone had to do it." Sherlock sighed, fiddling with his cuffs. John pushed forward his plate of crisps, now that the sandwich had been eaten, and watched as his friend took one and began to nibble on it. He kept the plate in the centre of the table.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John began. "I knew how much this would hurt you─"

"It didn't hurt me." he muttered.

"─and I wish it didn't have to happen, but we had to be sure no one was after you─"

"John."

"─and by doing that we needed to ensure people thought Mycroft was dead─"

"John."

"─and I wouldn't have wanted any part in it, but I found plans for a bomb when we went to Milverton's office building─"

"_John_."

"─and then I saw Mycroft's name there and I knew he was going to be killed. I didn't tell you then because you were busy and we had to escape shortly afterwards─"

"Jo-ohn."

"─but otherwise I would have, and I guessed you'd be angry with me and you are within perfect rights to be angry─"

"John!" Sherlock shouted, and John stopped his babbling, watching his friend with wide eyes. The café went quiet and glared at the duo in the corner, before chatter soon resumed.

"There's no need for you to apologise." Sherlock said. "It is I who has been abusing your offers of help, and I am sorry for that because I am grateful for it and I wish I had not been so childish, for you did not deserve my silence─"

"You were grieving, Sherlock." It was John's turn to interrupt, and he leant forward as he spoke. "I wasn't expecting you to pour out your soul to me, and yes, I had hoped for a little more communication, but I didn't care, as long as you were eating and sleeping. I know you blamed me for holding you back─"

"Something I should also be sorry for." Sherlock cut in. "It is obvious you were trying to protect me, and I thank you for that. Unfortunately, my brain seemed to think you had something against Mycroft, which is why you were letting him die."

"It's perfectly reasonable to be resentful for that." John said gently. "But as well as getting you out of the way, I needed you to be gone before the timer finished counting so that there would not be a noticeable twenty second delay before the explosion. I think Mycroft broke free of the wire triggers with about ten seconds to go."

Sherlock nodded, understanding now. "And that same night, after you talked me out of killing Milverton, you went to A&E and then tended to Mycroft, didn't you?" he asked, picking up another crisp.

"Yes. I knew he would have been cutting it close so I visited him as soon as I got my sling on. He wasn't too bad off, but unfortunately that scar on his face is going to be permanent; a piece of glass had been embedded, and I was lucky to get it out in one piece."

Sherlock bowed his head. "Thank you John, really. You have been good to myself and Mycroft, and we certainly do not deserve you kindness."

"Idiot." John answered, and Sherlock looked up with his brows furrowed. "You're being ridiculous. If I thought you two Holmes's were... _unworthy_ of me, then I would have left a long time ago. If anything, I would have thought you'd get bored of me before I got tired of you."

"Never." Sherlock said vehemently, and John smiled, sipping his tea.

"Well that's good then." he said. "We can continue to annoy each other until we're in our graves."

"Deal." Sherlock answered with a smirk.

* * *

**A/N: Just the epilogue to go, and then we're done! Please leave a review you lovely people x**


	18. Epilogue

Loud music reverberated around the large room as John made his way through the stream of guests, smiling at those who caught his eye and thanking people who congratulated him.

"John!"

The doctor spun and looked at the elder couple stood in front of him, each clutching a champagne flute.

"Congratulations dear." the woman smiled, rubbing his arm in a friendly manner. John forced himself not to take a step back as they crowded in on him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hunter." he answered, returning a smile to Mary's aunt and uncle.

"Married at last, eh son?" Mr. Hunter nudged him in the side, placing a beefy arm around the doctor's shoulders. "Feels good, don' it?"

"Yes, it's great." John said, trying not to squirm. Mr Hunter was very obviously drunk.

"Say, how's the arm?" he asked, grasping John's left arm. The doctor managed not to wince and subtly removed his arm from Mr Hunter's grip.

"Getting better." the doctor said. "I got the sling off a few days ago, so it should be right as rain soon enough."

"Uncle Evan, I hope you're not harassing my husband?"

Blessedly, Mary appeared on John's right, lightly gripping his elbow. He had never been more happy to see her.

"Never, my dear." Mr Hunter said, removing his arm and stepping next to his wife, watching the newlyweds with a proud smile.

"You look beautiful, love." Mrs Hunter sighed, beaming at Mary.

"Thank you, Aunt Phoebe. Actually, if you'll excuse us, I need a quick word with John."

"Of course." Phoebe Hunter waved them off. "We shan't interrupt the happy couple." she added with a wink.

John and Mary both smiled again before turning and heading towards the bar. John took two champagne flutes off a plate held by a passing waiter and then faced Mary, leaning against the bar.

"I could kiss you right now." he said, taking a sip of his drink and handing the other glass to his wife.

Mary grinned. "They're a bit overbearing, aren't they? Especially drunk."

"You could have warned me."

"That the majority of my family don't know the meaning of personal space? I thought I'd let you find that out for yourself. Let you know what you've gotten yourself into."

John chuckled and pecked her on the cheek. "No regrets." he smiled. "And anyway, I've spent four years living with someone who has no concept of personal space. I think I'll manage."

Mary nodded. "Where is he, anyway? I saw him a few minutes ago but he keeps moving about." she said, looking across the dance floor.

John too scanned the room, and it wasn't long before he spotted Sherlock, sitting alone at a table and watching everyone with a bored expression. The doctor shook his head.

"I'll be back in a bit." he said and Mary nodded, already being engaged by another family member.

John strode across the floor and snatched another champagne flute before sitting down next to Sherlock, the detective watching him suspiciously.

"I would've thought you'd want to be with Mary." he said over the music, which seemed to be louder this end of the room. He accepted the offered drink and waited for an answer.

John shrugged. "She doesn't mind." he said loudly.

Sherlock nodded and continued his examination of the room, watching people dance and generally have a good time.

John watched him closely. "You're not enjoying yourself, are you?"

The detective looked over to him. "What makes you think that?" he asked, frowning as the DJ turned the volume up louder when a new song began.

John shook his head. "Come on." he called, touching Sherlock's arm as he rose and waited for the younger man to get up also. The two wound their way through the many guests until they were out of the room and walking down a corridor towards the exit.

The cool night air hit their faces as they stepped out, and John moved forward to sit on one of the steps leading up to the building. He felt Sherlock sit down next to him moments later.

"You didn't have to come if you didn't want to." John said, sipping at the champagne.

"It's not all that bad." Sherlock replied, and John chuckled.

"Well that's good." he smiled. Sherlock smirked and also drank some of his drink. He pulled a face and scowled at the glass.

"Still not one for alcohol." he muttered. John looked across at him.

"There's pineapple juice in Mary's car if you want it."

There was a brief pause, and John tried not to laugh when he realised Sherlock was considering it. "This'll be fine." the detective eventually said.

Silence reigned for a few minutes as both men looked out across the large gravel driveway. Fairy lights illuminated a number of paths if guests chose to take a walk, and the lights were also hung in various trees, lighting up the place and creating a very romantic setting.

John glanced across to Sherlock, who was still staring at something ahead of him. He cleared his throat.

"Thank you for being my best man." he said quietly, and Sherlock's icy grey eyes met his soft hazel ones.

"It's fine." the detective murmured, looking straight again. "I wasn't too bad, was I?"

"What makes you think you were bad at all?" John asked, frowning slightly.

"Well... it's me." Sherlock said, a bitter smile forming. "I don't do these... social niceties very often – rather, not at all, so I'm somewhat out of practice."

"Well, your speech was... peculiar." John said, and Sherlock grimaced. "But it was perfect, don't worry. You did great."

Sherlock nodded, and they simultaneously took a sip of their drinks. The detective tried not to pull another face at the taste.

"How is your arm?" he asked after a beat.

"Healing." John replied. "The injury wasn't that serious so it was never going to take too long."

Sherlock shifted. "Yes, but it did suffer some... trauma, afterwards. Due to me."

John shook his head. "You didn't cause any extra damage, though, so it's fine."

"It's not fine." Sherlock argued.

"You were angry–"

"Yes, angry enough to grab your injured limb – and I knew it was injured – and all but wrench it away." Sherlock spat, a dark expression crossing his face.

"Hey," John said softly, "I don't blame you or anything, and you shouldn't blame yourself either. It was understandable; I know I got in your way and crowded you, and you just needed to get out. Nothing serious came out of it, so just forget about it, hmm?"

Sherlock sighed heavily and his hand moved towards his pocket. He paused suddenly, and glanced across at John guiltily.

"Go ahead." John waved his hand. "You don't have to listen to me anymore."

Sherlock pulled out his cigarette packet and stared down at it, obviously torn between taking one and doing what he knew John would want, even if the doctor would never say it.

John eyed him closely, narrowing his eyes. "I mean it, Sherlock. Do what you want."

The detective weighed the packet in hand, bouncing the box a few times and still trying to make up his mind. Eventually, he offered the packet to John, who frowned.

"Why are you giving it to me? I don't smoke." he said, confused.

"Just take it." Sherlock said shortly. "Before I change my mind."

Slowly, John extended his hand and Sherlock dropped the packet onto it. Silently, the doctor put the cigarettes in his pocket.

"May as well start now." Sherlock muttered, and John smiled to himself.

"How's Mycroft?" John asked, going for a change of subject. "I haven't seen much of him this past fortnight."

Sherlock shrugged. "What he does is no concern of mine." he answered. John chuckled.

"So it's back to the sibling rivalry thing is it?" The doctor smiled. "Well, he seemed happy in there." He inclined his head towards the building. "I wouldn't have thought he'd want to come, but I suppose anybody who watches Greg dance drunk is going to be entertained." The detective rolled his eyes.

"Really, John, there was no need to invite my brother." he sniffed.

"There was every need." John replied. "I figured he wouldn't want to be left out."

Sherlock snorted and the doctor grinned.

"Okay, that wasn't why I invited him." he said. "Mary did, actually. You should've been there when we asked him. He got all flustered, it was brilliant."

Sherlock laughed. "Yes, he never did know how to react when he got invited to things. He always accepted out of courtesy, even if he didn't want to go." John smiled, imagining all the birthday parties the two Holmes brothers must have been forced to attend.

Sherlock's phone suddenly dinged, and he pulled it from his pocket, reading the text. He pursed his lips together and stiffly placed his phone back in his jacket pocket. John watched his suspicious behaviour and squinted his eyes.

"Who was it from?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in interest.

Sherlock shrugged. "No one important." he said, looking away. This did nothing to alleviate John's suspicions so, convinced Sherlock wasn't watching, he ever so gently slid two fingers into the detective's pocket and quickly pulled his phone out, mentally cheering when Sherlock didn't feel it. He unlocked the phone and went to the messages inbox. It was from DI Dimmock.

"Ooh, triple murder." he said, and Sherlock's head snapped round. "Sounds exciting."

"Give that _here_." The younger man made a move to snatch the phone back, but John held it away, his arm extended.

"If you want to go, you can always ask." John said as his other hand held back Sherlock and prevented him from launching himself towards the phone.

"I don't want to go." he argued. "I'm happy here."

"Liar." John chuckled, before tossing back the mobile. Sherlock caught it easily and stuffed it in his inner pocket, causing another laugh to escape John. The detective straightened his suit and shuffled away from John.

"Go, you muppet." John said, nudging Sherlock in the side with his elbow. "It's fine."

Sherlock looked across to him, trying to work out if he was lying. "You're certain?" he asked.

"Of course." John replied. "Though I'm afraid I can't go with you, you know, what with just being married and all that."

Sherlock smiled and raised his champagne flute. "To a long and happy marriage, Dr Watson, however dull it may be."

John laughed and they both clinked glasses. Sherlock downed his drink in one and raced off into the night.

"Nutter." John said to himself, smiling and finishing his champagne before getting up and going inside to find his wife.

* * *

**A/N: And there we are. Thank you to everyone who has read this story, and I hoped you've all enjoyed it. Thanks also to those who have reviewed/favourite/followed; it really means a lot.**


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